


And The Lights Are Turned Way Down Low

by eternaleponine



Series: Let It Snow [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Clexmas (The 100), F/F, Snowed In, Winter, clexmas 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21905605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: Clarke has never seen snow before.  She has also never seen the neighbor that lives across the street.Lexa keeps herself to herself, her only company the ghosts she doesn't know how to let go of.When the first big storm of the winter hits their little northern town, both of their lives are about to change.For Clexmas 2019 - Day 4 - Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Series: Let It Snow [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089644
Comments: 530
Kudos: 855





	1. Chapter 1

Clarke had never pictured herself living this far north, but with more and more schools cutting their arts programs the minute they found their budgets coming up short, jobs for school art teachers were fewer and farther between than she'd imagined. She'd thought going the teaching route would be a safer option than trying to make a name for herself in the art scene, but after almost a year of substitute teaching and temp gigs, she had been beginning to have her doubts. So when she'd been offered a position in a small district in the wilds of New England, she'd accepted with almost no questions asked. 

It had only been a few weeks – her predecessor had started the year, but when the leaves started to turn, she'd decided she couldn't take another winter up here and fled south – but so far, Clarke was loving it. Her students were great, the administration actually saw value in what she had to offer... it was basically her dream job. 

And the winter she'd been told to brace herself for had so far failed to manifest. The weathermen (and woman) had been warning of an incoming storm, but Clarke hadn't seen so much as a flake. She also hadn't seen the sun in several days, and it was getting depressing. At least if there was snow falling from the ominous-looking sky, it would make it worth the gloom. 

She sat curled on her couch, her knees tucked up to her chest, and sipped her coffee as she looked out the window at the house across the street. At first she'd thought it was abandoned, because there was no car in the driveway and she never saw anyone go in or out. But the mail truck stopped there and sometimes left packages on the porch, and they would be gone later, so _someone_ must live there... Clarke just had no idea who. 

_Curiosity killed the cat,_ she told herself, every time she thought about knocking on the door. 

_But satisfaction brought it back,_ another part of her countered, but never with quite enough conviction to get her up and out the door.

When the first flakes fell, Clarke didn't realize what it was. She had only ever seen snow on the television and in movies; she'd never experienced it first-hand. It took her a moment to connect the dots between the on-screen white stuff and the crystalline blobs falling from the sky, half of them disappearing as soon as they hit the ground. 

She put her coffee down and raced for the door, shrugging on her coat and stuffing her feet into the boots she'd bought and hadn't yet worn. She wound a scarf around her neck and tugged a hat over her hair, the giant pom-pom bobbling on top of her head. They had both been gifts from students – a pair of best friends who she never saw apart – on the last day before Christmas break, handmade and a little wonky in places, but they were soft and warm and Clarke had thanked them so profusely they'd both blushed. She was thrilled to finally be able to put them to use.

She stepped out into the cold and tipped her face up, holding her hands out and turning in a slow circle as the flakes hit her face and melted. She licked the drops from her lips, then stuck her tongue out to catch the flakes directly, laughing as they tickled her skin. 

She turned up her palms, wanting to see for herself if what they said about every snowflake being unique was true, only to realize she wasn't going to catch anything in her bare hands. She fished her gloves out of her pockets and slid them on, staring intently as the snow when it landed on their surface, trying to memorize its intricate structures before the warmth of her hands through the material dissolved them. It was hard to tell if they truly were all different, but Clarke knew one thing for certain: they were all the most beautiful things she'd ever seen.

* * *

"You'll learn to hate it," Lexa muttered, her voice rasping in her throat, and she wondered how long it had been since she'd last spoken out loud. Two days? Three? She'd had groceries delivered as soon as they'd first started predicting the storm, wanting to beat the rush, and she hoped she'd at least said thank you to the delivery person, but she wasn't sure she had. She might have just pointed and grunted and locked the door behind him when he left. It hadn't been one of her better days.

 _As if you **have** better days,_ pointed out the snide, sarcastic voice in her head that was her constant (and only) companion. 

_Better than lying in bed crippled by pain,_ she told it. 

_Oh, you mean the pain that doesn't exist?_ , it asked. _The pain that's all in your head?_

So she was told by her doctors. 'We can't find any physiological cause,' they told her. 'Physically, you've healed perfectly, and there is no reason for you to be experiencing any pain symptoms whatsoever.'

They were wrong. They _had_ to be wrong. There had to be a reason...

But there wasn't. There never was. If she'd learned anything in this life, it was that the people who said that everything happened for a reason were full of shit. There was no plan, no greater meaning, no higher purpose. And if there was a higher power, they were a sadistic son-of-a-bitch. 

So the pain was all in her head. So what? Did that make it any less real?

Lexa watched the girl – woman, they were probably around the same age but Lexa felt so much older – across the street as she examined the snowflakes falling into her gloved hands and wondered if she'd ever experienced anything with such, well, wonder in her life. What would it be like to feel so much joy, and awe, at something so simple as a snowflake?

What would it be like to feel anything at all?

She watched until the woman's eyes flicked up toward her house, and she quickly twitched the heavy curtain back into place before she could get caught watching. The last thing she wanted was for her new neighbor to decide to get curious about her. She seemed like the meddling sort, and all Lexa wanted was to be left alone. 

She held her breath, half expecting a knock on the door any second. But seconds passed, then minutes, and nothing happened. When she finally dared a quick peek out the window, it was just in time to see the door closing. Lexa breathed a sigh of relief and went to go make herself some tea. She probably wouldn't drink it – she almost never did – but she liked the scalding heat against her palms when she held the mug until its contents cooled.

* * *

Clarke could have sworn she'd seen someone at the window of the house across the street, just for a second, but when she looked back, there was no one there. She thought about going over to check on them, make sure there was nothing they needed before the storm got worse – even with her extremely limited experience, she could tell that the flakes were falling faster than before, and the wind was starting to pick up – but when there was no further movement after a few minutes, she decided she'd imagined it. A trick of the light or a reflection on the window or something. 

She watched the snow fall for another few moments before the cold started to seep through her jeans, the only part of her not layered for warmth, and she decided she'd better go back inside. She stomped her feet on the mat even though there wasn't enough snow yet to cling to them and stepped in, casting one last glance toward her neighbor's window before closing the door.

Her coffee had gone cold while she was out, so she dumped it down the sink and rinsed the mug, putting it in the drainer to dry. She looked around, trying to decide what to do with the rest of the day. Her eyes snagged on the Christmas decorations she'd bought. Today would be a perfect day to go around making things festive, but then she saw the pile of untouched art supplies she'd splurged on with her first paycheck and she decided decorating could wait. She tossed down an old sheet to protect the floor and set up her easel facing the window, determined to capture the scene outside as it unfolded. 

Hours later, she blinked and forced the rest of the world back into focus. She set down her paintbrush and pressed a hand to her lower back, arching to stretch it, then clenched and flexed her fingers to ease the ache she hadn't even noticed until now. She looked out the window, realizing that while she'd been in the almost trance-like state she entered when she was really into a piece, the snow had completely covered the grass, and walkways, and the road. She didn't know how much there was, but it looked like several inches, and it didn't show any signs of stopping. If anything, it was coming down harder than before. But Clarke didn't have anywhere to be, so she didn't mind. 

Her lips curled into a smile as a lyric popped into her head, and she sang the words in an undertone, barely more than a whisper even though there was no one else to hear: "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

* * *

For Lexa, sleep was all or nothing. Sometimes she slept twelve or more hours straight, drowning in nightmares she couldn't wake from. Other times she didn't sleep more than a few minutes for days on end, and her nightmares bled into the daytime, playing themselves out in front of dry, bloodshot eyes she couldn't keep closed no matter how hard she tried. 

Tonight was one of the latter, except the image she couldn't shake wasn't of sand skirling around and into tight-laced boots, or of blood on her hands, sleeves, knees, _face_ , or of waking to too bright lights and an elephant sitting on her chest. Tonight, what she kept seeing every time she closed her eyes was of a golden-haired, rosy-cheeked young woman with her face tipped back and her tongue out, laughing as snowflakes caught in her lashes and tickled her nose. 

_She's beautiful,_ a voice long-silenced whispered. 

" _You're_ beautiful," Lexa whispered back, her lips barely moving because there was no one there to hear.

 _But she's **alive** ,_ another voice pointed out. 

"Exactly," Lexa said. "We're not." And she clamped headphones over her ears, blasting white noise to drown out whatever arguments they might try to make to the contrary. 

When the lights went out across the street, Lexa eased open her curtains just enough to be able to watch the snow as it fell... and fell... and fell. Between that and the sounds of ocean waves in her ears (there were no waves in the desert) she felt something almost like quiet, almost like peace, settle over her. When day finally dawned again, the storm had slackened its pace, and Lexa closed the curtains, took off her headphones, and got dressed to go outside.

* * *

Clarke woke to a scraping sound. At first she thought it must be a tree branch against a window, or maybe an animal on the roof (at least she hoped it was on the roof and not in the attic; she wasn't sure what she would do if she went up there and found herself face-to-face with a raccoon), but it was too regular, too rhythmic. She kicked off the covers and shivered, the urge to find out what the noise was warring the desire to crawl back into the warm cave of blankets. But that damn cat demanded satisfaction, so she stuffed her feet into slippers and wrapped herself in the thick flannel robe that had been a Christmas gift from her mother, opened early at her insistence. She padded downstairs and into the kitchen, peering out the window. 

She blinked at the brightness of the snow, her eyes temporarily dazzled even though the sun wasn't out yet... if it came out at all. The light that filtered through the clouds was more than enough to glare off the blanket of white that covered everything... or nearly everything. There was a path cleared through it from the sidewalk to her front door, getting longer every moment as someone dug in, lifted, and tossed the fluffy white stuff to the side, the blade of their shovel grating against the cement each time. 

_That_ was the sound she'd heard.

Clarke watched, knowing she ought to go out and help, or at least say thank you and maybe offer some coffee or breakfast or something, but she found herself frozen, trying to figure out who on earth the person in her driveway was. She'd met most of her neighbors, and none of them matched the slight figure – even bundled as they were they looked like a stiff breeze might carry them away – that worked tirelessly to free Clarke from the snow's chilly embrace.

Clarke ran back to her room and dressed herself in the warmest things she had, heedless of whether they went together or not. She felt like an overstuffed sausage by the time she stepped outside, but at least the bite of the wind didn't immediately nip at her bones. 

"Hello!" she called, stomping down the cleared path flat-footed, because she'd been told that was the safest way to avoid slipping when walking on snow or ice. The person – she still couldn't tell if they were a man or a woman (although if they were a man it was more likely a teenage boy) – didn't stop, didn't even look up. "Hello?" she tried again when she was a little closer. 

For a second they seemed to hesitate, but maybe they'd just paused to catch their breath, because they dug out another shovelful and tossed it aside without responding. Clarke thought about reaching out to touch them, but she didn't want to startle them, so she stepped off the path, the snow nearly overtopping her boots as she waded through to put herself in front of the oblivious good Samaritan. 

They finally stopped with their shovel inches from her boots, their eyes dragging up from the ground to Clarke's face. And Clarke realized her assessment of the snowflakes yesterday as the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen had been wrong, or at least very, very temporary. Because they paled – no pun intended – in comparison to _her_.

* * *

Lexa had hoped she would finish before she woke up, that she would look out the window to find the sidewalk and driveway cleared like some kind of pre-Christmas miracle, without ever knowing it was Lexa who'd done it. Without ever knowing Lexa existed, if she could arrange it. But it was taking longer than Lexa had anticipated, and she hadn't slept in like Lexa had hoped, and ignoring her wasn't working, now she was in Lexa's way, and...

It took her a moment to realize there was a purpose behind the way the woman was moving her hands, pointing to Lexa, then tapping the tip of her index finger first to her ear, then the corner of her mouth. She wasn't just gesturing randomly – it was sign language. She was asking if Lexa was deaf. For a second Lexa considered going along with it, letting her believe she couldn't hear, hoping it would discourage her from trying to have a conversation, but then what if she knew more than the very basics of ASL and discovered Lexa didn't? Not that everyone who was deaf signed, but...

Lexa shook her head. 

"Oh," the woman said. "I thought maybe—" She stopped, shrugged like she'd decided whatever she'd been about to say wasn't important. "You don't have to do this," she said. "I mean, thank you! Of course. But you don't have to."

 _I know,_ Lexa said. _I want to._

And it had been a long, long time since she'd wanted to do anything. But she couldn't explain that. Not without scaring her away. Which probably she ought to do, lest she think a single good deed was an invitation to try to worm her way into Lexa's life. But the thought of putting everything – or anything –  
into words a stranger could understand was more exhausting than shoveling out the entire neighborhood would be. 

"At least let me help you," she said. "I'll—"

"No need," Lexa said. "I'm almost done."

She wasn't. She wasn't even halfway done, maybe not even a third, and from the way those sky blue eyes narrowed – how long had it been since she'd seen the blue of the sky? but she knew its color when she saw it, and remembered just for a second warm summer days and sunlight on her skin and... – they both knew it. 

"I want to help," she said. 

Lexa had heard that before. Empty words. As empty as— She cut the train of thought off before it could gain speed and focused on the clearing the square of sidewalk in front of her, digging under the snow compacted by the woman's boots and tossing it to the side, erasing the evidence of her as if she'd never been there at all.

* * *

Clarke had barely cleared six feet in front of her before her lungs started to burn and her back to ache. How the hell had the woman cleared so much, so fast? And she'd gone twice the distance Clarke had in the same amount of time and kept going, more machine than man. Woman. 

"It's so fluffy," Clarke said. "How the hell is it so heavy?"

The question was rhetorical, so she nearly jumped out of her skin when she got an answer.

"It's worse when it's wet," she – Clarke really ought to get her name – said. "You'll see, if you stick around."

Clarke stopped, leaning on her shovel. "Why wouldn't I stick around?" she asked.

She thought she saw the other woman shrug, but maybe that was just the way her shoulders moved as she scooped up another pile of snow. "Some people aren't cut out for this."

"Are you?" Clarke asked. "Cut out for this?"

She stopped then, actually stopped, and looked up. For a second, Clarke thought she might get lost in the blue spruce forest of the woman's eyes, but then she looked away again so quickly Clarke thought maybe she hadn't meant to make eye contact at all. "This is the only thing I'm cut out for anymore." She got back to work. 

_What the hell does **that** mean?_ Clarke wanted to asked. _How can this be the only thing you're cut out for? What **this** are you even referring to? Shoveling snow? Helping neighbors in need? Surviving winters that might send others south with the geese?_ She wanted to ask, but she didn't. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the conversation was over.

They worked in silence, starting on opposite ends of the driveway and working toward the middle. Clarke paused to clear off her car (although she questioned the futility of it, since it was still snowing, albeit at a much slower pace than before, more a sprinkle than a downpour, if it had been rain) while the woman dug out the end of the driveway where a small mountain range of compacted snow had been left behind by the plow when it passed in the night. The fact that they actually met somewhere close to the middle was down to the fact that it was clearly a more backbreaking task than clearing the smooth expanse of the driveway. 

"Thank you," Clarke said as the woman looked around and realized there was nothing more to do. She tried not to sound winded, but the puffs of condensed breath that escaped her lips gave her away. "It would have taken me forever to do this on my own. I'm Clarke, by the way." 

The woman looked down and to the left, like she was looking for a name tag to remind her of her own name, and then lifted her chin a little too high like she hadn't meant to do it, and she would deny it if Clarke said anything about it. "Lexa," she said, after a silence that was just a little too long. 

"It's nice to meet you, Lexa," Clarke said, holding out a hand. Lexa didn't even look at it, just kept one hand on her shovel and the other loose at her side. "Do you want to come in and warm up? I can make you some coffee."

Lexa shook her head. "No ma'am," she said, then stiffened, her eyes going narrow and far away. "Appreciate the offer, though." She turned and walked away, her boots leaving prints in the snow that had already settled over the driveway they'd – really she'd – so painstakingly cleared. She crossed the street without looking – it wasn't a heavily traveled road in the best weather; Clarke assumed she trusted no one would be coming down it now when it was covered in snow and ice – and stopped on the other side. She stood absolutely still for what would have been the span over several breaths if Clarke hadn't been holding hers, waiting to see what Lexa would do.

And then Lexa turned again, and Clarke felt her cheeks flush from more than just cold and exertion at being caught watching. Lexa's shoulders rose as she took a deep breath, and then, in a voice that was loud enough to carry across the street but still somehow oddly intimate, like it was meant for Clarke's ears only, she said, "You need anything, you come find me." She lifted a hand and pointing to the house across the street. "Just there."

"I will," Clarke said. "Thank you."

Lexa nodded, and then stomped through the snow that led her own door – unshoveled, Clarke noticed – and disappeared inside.


	2. Chapter 2

_What the hell was **that**?_ Lexa demanded as she yanked off her boots and threw them into the corner... and then immediately went and picked them up, setting them neatly side-by-side on the tray where they could drip without the water running everywhere. She shucked off her coat and hung up her hat. _What the hell were you **thinking**? 'If you need anything, come find me.' Have you lost your damned mind?!_

_You always were a sucker for a pretty smile,_ one of the newly-resurrected voices teased her. 

_And pretty eyes,_ the other added. 

_And tenacity,_ said the first. _You've got to give her that. She didn't give up._

"She'll feel it tomorrow," Lexa said. "Especially when she realizes she has to do it all over again."

_Unless you do it for her..._

_I can think of a few other things she might like you to do for her..._ If it was possible for a disembodied voice to waggle its eyebrows, it did, and Lexa flipped it off, even though there was no one there to see the gesture, and hadn't been in a long time. Months. Years. She didn't know. It didn't matter. Time didn't heal all wounds after all.

_Only the ones you let it,_ said the first voice, the kind one, the gentle one, the one that shouldn't, by rights, be able to speak at all, considering...

"No," Lexa said. "No. Not now. Not—" 

But she couldn't unsee what she'd seen, what she'd tried to keep others from seeing, had begged them not to look at, begged them not to-- And she couldn't unhear the screaming when they hadn't listened, and the report of the rifles at the funeral she'd been given two weeks' leave to attend, seven of them three times, and and and—

She stumbled to the shower, shedding clothing as she went, turned the water on and climbed in, the icy droplets sucking the breath from her lungs so she didn't start screaming too. She turned the dial all the way up and the water warmed, restoring feeling to her chilled limbs a little too quickly so her fingers and toes tingled, then throbbed. And then it was hot, too hot, scalding her skin and turning it red, and if she stayed under it much longer it would burn, and she thought maybe she could just let it, _should_ just let it...

But she'd always been a sucker for a pretty smile, and pretty eyes, and what if Clarke came looking for her and she didn't answer? What if she came in and found her—

Lexa would never do that to her. She would never do that to anyone. She turned the water down until it was pleasantly warm again and grabbed a bar of soap to slick the layer of sweat from her skin.

* * *

Clarke made herself some coffee, then toast and eggs and bacon because she was starving, unused to that much physical labor. She could already feel the ache settling into her back and shoulders (which probably meant she'd been doing it wrong – lift with your knees and all that, but did that apply to snow?) and knew it would get worse before it got better. 

She wished Lexa had taken her up on her offer to come in. Maybe Clarke should have promised not to ask questions, that they didn't have to talk, that she was okay with companionable silence. She wasn't, not really... but she would have made herself be if it meant not being alone for a little while. 

And god, she was lonely. Packing up her life and moving hundreds of miles from everything and everyone she knew had been necessary, but that didn't make it any easier. She'd thought about going home for the holidays, but then everyone else had started making their own plans, and none of those involved venturing to the North Pole (as Raven had dubbed Clarke's new zip code) to visit. 'Maybe next year,' they'd said, with almost enough enthusiasm to make Clarke believe them.

She'd had some half-hearted offers from coworkers to spend the holidays with them, all of which she'd politely declined. It wasn't just that she would have felt completely out of place and awkward, although that was most of it. It was also the fact that the invitations themselves had all been offered cringingly, like they were just doing it to be polite, and they really hoped she wouldn't say yes. They weren't bad people... the holidays were just meant to be spent with family and friends. Clarke wasn't the former and hadn't been there long enough to qualify as the latter... assuming they were willing or able to get over the fact that she was closer to their kids' age than their own in most cases. 

So yeah, it would have been nice to share breakfast with someone. Even a mysterious, taciturn someone Clarke had been living across the street from for months without ever once seeing, who then decided to shovel out Clarke before shoveling out herself, who had hesitated to give her name but had offered any help Clarke needed, if she needed it. 

And meant it.

What kind of person did that? 

Clarke let her thoughts chase themselves in circles while she finished eating and washed her dishes, then decided she needed a distraction because she was going to drive herself crazy trying to put together the puzzle of Lexa with practically no pieces at all. She thought about painting, but she'd done that yesterday, and she needed something that required more active thought. Her eyes skimmed over her shelves, finally landing on the cookie tin she used to store watercolor tubes that were so close to empty she really ought to throw them away, but what if she just needed a few drops of a color? 

"Cookies," she said. "Who can say no to cookies?"

* * *

Lexa made herself oatmeal, sprinkling it liberally with brown sugar – the dark kind that actually had flavor – and a glass of orange juice to wash it down. Others claimed the combination was revolting – the sweetness and the acid an unholy duo – but Lexa didn't mind the contrast. When she was done she did the dishes, washing and drying and putting them away. _Leave no mess behind,_ like she'd always been taught. 

When she peeked out between the curtains, she saw that Clarke's driveway had already disappeared under a blanket of fresh snow and sighed... but a little part of her was glad, because it gave her an excuse to go back over there later, or tomorrow.

_Since when do you need an excuse?_

_Since when do you **want** one?_

_You know if you want her to come over, you should probably clear a path for her..._

_Shit._ She'd been so intent on getting inside, getting away, holing up with only her thoughts and mistakes for company that she'd forgotten to shovel herself out. Not that Clarke couldn't forge a path through it if she really needed – or wanted? – to get to Lexa, but it was rude to extend an invitation (of sorts) and then leave an obstacle course in Clarke's path. 

Lexa sighed and bundled up again, heading back out into the cold. 

She'd kept her head down while she worked before, but now she found herself glancing up every few feet to watch Clarke through her kitchen window. It was one of those big picture windows, double or triple the width of a standard window, and Clarke hadn't bothered to cover it, so anyone walking by could see right in. Lexa had never paid much attention before, but it was hard to ignore her when she was dancing around the kitchen with a mixing bowl on her hip and a wooden spoon for a microphone, belting out a song Lexa couldn't hear. 

Was it a Christmas song? Was she Rocking Around the Christmas Tree, or boogeying to some Jingle Bell Rock? Whatever it was, she was having a good time, and Lexa found herself wishing she'd accepted Clarke's invitation. Except if she was there, Clarke wouldn't be having fun, because Lexa had a way of sucking the life out of whatever room she was in. So Clarke was better off without her. 

She forced herself to keep her eyes in front of her, working faster so she wouldn't be tempted anymore. 

_If Clarke was helping, you would be done by now..._

"Not likely," Lexa muttered. "She was more of a hindrance than a help." Which wasn't true, but it kept her from latching on to the idea, from imagining Clarke looking up and seeing her out here and coming out to return Lexa's favor. Because she didn't want that. She didn't want anything from anyone. It was one of the reasons she'd moved up here, where the desire to be neighborly was tempered by a healthy dose of live and let live. She hadn't had to rebuff many attempts at friendly conversation before people got the hint and left her to her own devices. 

In the end, it didn't matter. Clarke didn't come out. Lexa didn't think she so much as glanced out the window. Once the front path and sidewalk were clear, she went back inside. The driveway could – and would – wait. It wasn't like she had plans to go anywhere any time soon. 

Lunchtime came and went, and Lexa made herself a sandwich, a big one piled so high with meat and cheese and lettuce it was hard to get her mouth around it. Usually she would only eat half, saving the other half for later or the next day, but she'd burned enough calories already today that the whole thing was gone before she knew it, and she was already contemplating what she would make for dinner... but that was hours away, and she didn't have the patience to make anything so fussy and fiddly it would take up that amount of time... so she curled up on the couch with a book.

She jerked awake hours later to the sound of a knock at the door. She ran her hand through her hair, shoving the tangled waves back out of her face, and crept toward it on feet as silent as she could make them, her heart pounding in her chest as she waved her hand in front of the peephole. If there was someone on the other side waiting for signs of movement before firing, better her hand than—

_Get a grip, Woods,_ she chastised herself. _Remember where you are._

It was probably just a delivery she needed to sign for, although she didn't remember ordering anything lately. 

She put her eye to the peephole, ready to fall back at the first sign that something was amiss, and the double-time march of her pulse tripped over itself when she saw it wasn't a delivery person at all. It was Clarke.

* * *

_She has to be home,_ Clarke thought. _If she'd gone out, there would be footprints. And tire tracks, because there's nowhere around here you can just walk to. So she has to be here._ But she didn't hear any movement, and the lights were all off, and—

The door opened, just a few inches, just enough to reveal one flannel-clad arm and shoulder and about three-quarters of Lexa's face. She didn't say anything, just looked at Clarke expectantly. 

Clarke thrust the plate of cookies she'd stacked so high they'd nearly toppled over three times before she managed to get them contained under plastic wrap. _I wanted to thank you for helping me earlier, and since you didn't want breakfast, I thought you might like some cookies. It really means a lot to know that there are people willing to lend a hand before you even think to ask for it, and it was really nice to meet you and—_

But the whole speech she'd planned got jammed in her throat as soon as Lexa's eyes met hers, and all that came out was a half-strangled, "Cookies!"

"For me?" Lexa asked, looking genuinely perplexed, the graceful arch of her eyebrows flattening as they drew together. 

"For earlier," Clarke said. "As a thank you for earlier," she amended, finally managing to string together something resembling a sentence. "I guess I probably should have asked first. I don't even know if you like sweets. Or if you have any allergies, or—"

"I don't," Lexa said. "I mean, I do. And I don't. Like sweets. And have allergies." 

"Oh good," Clarke said, relieved that she wasn't the only one struggling with coherence in this conversation. But then she realized she still wasn't sure what Lexa was saying. "Wait, you—"

"Thank you," Lexa said. She nudged the door open a little farther, reaching to take the plate from Clarke. As she reached over the threshold, Clarke caught sight of a chain around her neck, the ball kind most commonly associated with—

Lexa followed her gaze and quickly stuffed the cluster of rubber-wrapped metal rectangles back into her shirt. She pulled the cookies to her chest. "I'll go put them in something so you can have your plate back," she said. 

"You don't—" Clarke started to say, but it was too late. Lexa was already gone, the door closed behind her... and the pieces, few though they were, started slipping into place. The looking down for a name tag, like Clarke should have already known what to call her, the calling her 'ma'am' even though they were probably around the same age, the dog tags...

She'd heard one of the teachers, whose car was plastered with stickers touting his military service, complaining about a soldier living in the area who refused to have anything to do with the town's Veterans Day celebration, and how he just didn't understand it, how they ought to be proud of their service to God and Country (and Clarke could tell from the way he said it that they were basically one and the same in his mind). Clarke had imagined a grizzled Vietnam draftee who'd escaped up here to get as far from under the thumb of The Man as he could. 

It had never occurred to her, not once, that the soldier might be a beautiful young woman with forests in her eyes that made Clarke's heart skip a beat every time she spoke, like it knew how rare and precious each word was.

* * *

_She saw,_ Lexa thought, twisting the chain around her finger until the tip turned purple. _She knows._ She kept twisting until it pinched the skin of her neck, not tight enough to cut off breath, but—

But maybe she didn't. Maybe Clarke didn't know what she'd seen. Maybe it wouldn't occur to her that there were too many tags on the chain. Where there ought to be two, there were five, and only one of them her own. The other four...

_She's waiting,_ a gentle voice reminded her. 

"Let her," Lexa said. "Let her wait. Let her wonder. Let her—"

_Let her **in**._

"No. I can't—no."

_You can._

"No. Please."

_Lexa..._

"No."

Lexa reached into the cupboard and pulled out a plate. She began to peel away the plastic from around the plate Clarke had brought over, and quickly realized it was the only thing keeping the cookies from spilling all over. Thankfully, the escapees only hit the counter, not the floor, but it was going to be more of a project than she'd thought. Maybe more of a project than she could handle at the moment. 

She left both plates on the counter and went back to the door. "Sorry, I—"

"You can keep the plate 'til you're done," Clarke said. "I have extras."

"Thanks," Lexa said. "It might... might be a while."

Clarke smiled. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her eyes sparkling in the dim light that filtered through from the kitchen. "There's only six or seven dozen cookies there, tops." 

"Did you keep any for yourself?" Lexa asked. "I don't—"

"I did," Clarke said. "You don't get a body like this giving all your goodies away."

* * *

The words were out before Clarke could think about them and how they might sound, and she felt heat rush to her cheeks and down her neck, until her whole head felt like it might spontaneously combust. The only consolation was that she got to see just how pretty Lexa was when she blushed... which probably wasn't the most rational way to look at things, but it was better than beating herself up over the slip like she normally would have. She was trying to be better about looking for silver linings. 

"I'm gonna go," she said. "I'll see you soon." _I hope._

Lexa nodded, and Clarke turned and made her way back across the road. It wasn't until she turned to close her door behind her that she realized Lexa was still exactly where she'd left her, like she'd wanted to make sure Clarke got home safe. Clarke waved, and Lexa lifted a hand, not quite a wave back, and closed the door.

Clarke's chest heaved like she'd sprinted across the street, and she had to steady herself against the wall as she took off her boots and peeled off the layers she'd donned for her brief adventure. She nearly jumped out of her skin for the second time that day when her phone started ringing, the sound up too loud because she'd wanted to make sure she could hear the timer for the cookies over the music she'd been blasting. 

"Hello?" she gasped. 

"Whoa," Raven said. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"What? No," Clarke said. "I just—I was just outside."

"Shoveling?" Raven asked. "I saw you finally got some snow."

"You check my weather forecast?" Clarke asked. 

"Sometimes," Raven said. "But no, it's bad enough – or going to get bad enough – that it made the news down here. I guess they were going with the whole 'Who's getting a white Christmas?' theme." 

"It's not that bad," Clarke said, even though she was pretty sure it was closing in on a foot by now, and was supposed to continue through the night. "A neighbor came over and helped clear my driveway." It was completely covered again, nearly as deep as it had been that morning, but that was beside the point.

"They saw you out there flailing and took pity on you?" Raven teased. 

Clarke rolled her eyes. "She was out there before I even woke up. And I did my fair share!" _Or at least I didn't get in her way..._

"She?" Raven asked. "One of the Real Housewives of the Arctic came to your rescue?"

"One, I don't think most of the women in this neighborhood are housewives. Even if they were, they're not the kind of people they make reality TV series about." 

"Um, Alaskan Bush People?" Raven interrupted. "Alaska: The Last Frontier. Ice Road—"

"This isn't Alaska!" Clarke said. " _Anyway._ Two, she lives across the street. In the house I thought was abandoned for a while. I think she's—" Clarke frowned, not sure she wanted to tell Raven her suspicions about Lexa. She didn't have any concrete proof, and what if she was wrong? 

"Think she's...?" Raven prompted. 

"Nothing," Clarke said. "Never mind." 

But it wasn't going to be that easy. It never was with Raven. "You think she's... hiding bodies in the back yard? When they catch serial killers, the neighbors always say that they seemed like such a nice person. Maybe she's trying to throw you off her trail. Or maybe she's trying to lure you in so she can—"

"Stop," Clarke said. "No." But there was something in Lexa's eyes and the way she would sometimes stare into the distance like she was seeing something that wasn't there, hearing sounds no one else could hear. Like she'd gotten lost in a memory that haunted her. 

"Sorry," Raven said, managing to sound at least a little contrite, like she knew she'd taken things too far. "You think she's..." She paused, and Clarke swore she could hear as Raven's split in a grin. "You think she's cute, don't you? Is that it? That's why you were all breathless! You were just making out with her. Or thinking about making out with her. Or—shit, did I interrupt Clarke-time?"

Clarke's head fell back, knocking against the door. "Was there a reason you called?" she asked. 

"You _do_ think she's cute," Raven said. "You didn't even try to deny it." She paused, smug in her certainty that she'd gotten it right this time. "I just wanted to check in," she finally said. "See how things were going. See if you'd changed your mind about—"

"I haven't," Clarke said. "I'm going to stay up here for the holidays this year."

"Are you sure?" Raven said. "If it's the money, I can—"

"It's not the money," Clarke interrupted. "I appreciate the offer, but... no. Thank you. It's just too stressful traveling this time of year, and I need... I need to get away. I need to figure out how to... do this, I guess."

Raven sighed. "I get it," she said. "We're gonna miss you, though."

"I'll miss you too," Clarke said. "Give everyone my love."

"I will," Raven said. "If you need anything—"

"Thanks," Clarke said. "I'm good. Really."

"I know," Raven said. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do with the neighbor..."

"I'm hanging up now," Clarke said. "Bye, Raven."

"Bye, Clarke," Raven said, managing to make even that sound like some kind of insinuation. But Clarke found herself smiling. As annoying as it could be sometimes, she knew if Raven was teasing her, they really were okay with each other. It was when the teasing stopped that she needed to worry.

* * *

When Clarke woke up, she could sense right away that something wasn't right, but it took a minute to realize what it was: it was too quiet. Too quiet, and too dark. Where there would normally be the hum and glow of electronics, there was nothing. The light that bled in around her drapes was extinguished. 

It was also really fucking cold. Cold enough that she could see her breath in front of her face when she exhaled, even inside. 

The power was out, and with it the heat. She reached for her phone, which thankfully had been almost fully charged when the power went out. It told her it was early, but hopefully not too early, because she had no idea what to do, and Lexa had said...

She bundled up over her pajamas and stepped out into the cold, a gust of wind nearly tipping her sideways as soon as she was out of the shelter of her tiny porch. She plodded across the road, now covered in at least a foot of snow, and where were the damn plows?, and knocked on the door.

It opened a moment later, and Clarke was greeted by a burst of warmth that made her want to push past Lexa to go cuddle up to its source, but she didn't want to – couldn't afford to – be rude. 

"Power's out," she said, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. 

Lexa looked at her, but Clarke didn't think she was seeing her. She didn't know what Lexa was seeing, what she was hearing as she disappeared in plain sight. It felt like an eternity, but was probably less than a minute, before she stepped aside. "Come in."


	3. Chapter 3

"Boots there, coat there," Lexa said, pointing to the plastic tray where her own boots, as well as a pair of sneakers, sat perfectly lined up with their toes against the wall, then to a set of pegs where she hung whatever outerwear was currently in season. The coat closet was for things she didn't need easy access to. 

Not that she went out much. Even in the dead of winter – especially in the dead of winter – she could keep her parka in the closet for days if not weeks without ever needing it, unless there was a storm. 

When Clarke had unwrapped herself from her layers, Lexa saw she was still in her pajamas. Warmth flooded her cheeks, though there was no reason to be embarrassed. There was nothing skimpy or revealing about them. If anything, that looked soft and warm and—

She stopped that train of thought before it could gather steam. 

"You need slippers?" she asked. 

Clarke looked down at her feet, which were clad in thick wool socks. "Oh. Um?"

"I have an extra pair," Lexa said. "Wait here." 

A snort, and her eyes flicked up to Clarke's face, but the sound hadn't come from her. _Wait here? What exactly is she waiting for? You invited her in – are you just going to make her stand in the entry?_

"What am I supposed to say?" Lexa muttered as she went back to her bedroom. There was a distinct temperature difference between the living area and her room, because the wood stove was very good at heating a small space, but the heat didn't penetrate from one room to another unless she left the doors open, and she couldn't sleep with an open door, even when she knew she was the only person in the house. Yet another reason she slept in the living room more often than not. 

_I don't know, maybe 'Make yourself at home'? That would be the polite thing._

_When have I ever been polite?_ Lexa asked. She rooted around in her closet until she found her old slippers, brushing the cobwebs off their toes. They weren't ratty, but they were well-worn. She'd finally replaced them a few months ago...

She slipped her feet out of the pair she was wearing and put on the old ones, ignoring the snickering in her head as she brought the nicer, newer pair out to Clarke, setting them on the floor by her feet. 

"Make yourself at home," she said, then turned and walked away.

* * *

The slippers were warm, but Lexa... 

Clarke tried not to overthink it. It was early. She might have woken Lexa up with her knocking (although she was fully dressed, so probably not) or interrupted her morning routine. Maybe she wasn't a morning person (but she'd been up early the morning before, shoveling Clarke out...) or maybe she wasn't a people person. Maybe she'd been alone for so long she didn't remember how to interact with people, or maybe she just didn't want to. But if that was the case, why had she told Clarke to find her if she needed anything? Maybe she'd just said it to be polite. Maybe she hadn't really meant it. But Lexa didn't strike Clarke as the type to uphold social niceties if they weren't sincere. 

Clarke looked around, but it was hard to see anything with the lights out. There were candles scattered around the room, their flickering flames barely making a dent in the darkness. The sun still wasn't out, but even the pale echo of daylight that got through the clouds might help. She went to the window and drew back the shades, blinking at the change in the level of light. 

"Are you—" Clarke turned toward Lexa's voice, only to find her far closer than she'd thought, practically shoving Clarke out of the way as she charged toward the window, yanking the curtains closed again and turning on her. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded, her face twisted with fury. "You can't just—" She stopped, her jaw clenching and unclenching, her throat working as she swallowed whatever words had been about to follow.

"I'm sorry," Clarke said, not letting herself cringe away from Lexa's anger. "It's just—" She bit her lip. "I should have asked. It's not my place." 

"No, it's not," Lexa said. She looked back at the window, her posture rigid, her shoulders tense even as she forced them down and back. She sucked in quick breaths through her nose, and her fingers twitched like she wanted to ball them into fists but wouldn't let herself. 

Clarke knew she should let it go. Knew she should walk away, go home, bundle up in blankets until the roads were cleared and she could go buy a space heater... which wouldn't work without electricity. But they would come fix that soon enough... wouldn't they? They had to. Otherwise people would freeze. 

Unless everyone who lived here for more than a few months was better prepared than she was. Obviously Lexa was, and she'd smelled woodsmoke on the air before so she knew there were other houses nearby with wood stoves or fireplaces to keep them warm. Maybe she was the only idiot... or her landlord was. Maybe that was why the rent had been so cheap. Maybe no one else was stupid enough to take the place, knowing how ill-prepared it was for winter. 

She shook her head to clear her spiraling thoughts, as if her brain was an etch-a-sketch. She looked toward the door, where her coat hung with beads of water still clinging from melted snow, the pom-pom of her hat wilted like it couldn't face the thought of going back outside either. 

"You're right," Lexa said, drawing Clarke's attention back. "It's dark in here." She went back to the window and eased open the curtains, not all the way but enough to dispel some of the gloom. Her eyes narrowed at the glare of light off snow, and for a moment she was gone again, Clarke didn't know where, before she turned away from the frozen landscape. "Are you hungry?"

Clarke nodded. She was, but also she didn't know what else to do in the face of Lexa's sudden turnaround. Her mood swings were enough to give a person whiplash. 

"Okay," Lexa said. "I'll be back."

* * *

She was fucking this up. Scaring Clarke, hurting her. She didn't want to. She wasn't trying to.

Was she? 

Was she trying to drive Clarke away, send her scurrying back across the street to the dark and cold of her own place so Lexa could hole up in her cave of solitude and hibernate until...

Until when? Not spring. Nothing would be different in the spring. Not for her. Spring brought new life to plants and animals, reinvigorated people, but it didn't touch Lexa. Nothing took root in her, nothing grew or blossomed. She was as useless and dead inside as the rocky soil she lived on, inhospitable to life.

_Do you think maybe you should ask her what she wants?_

_I know what she wants,_ Lexa said. _Shelter from the storm. Someplace warm to be._ Lexa could give her that. Maybe. If she could keep her shit together and stay out of both their ways. 

_I meant for breakfast._ A soft laugh, a teasing smile, memories of—

Lexa slammed the skillet on the stove top, the bang shattering the images that flooded in, sending them back into the corners of her mind, lurking in the shadows and waiting to pounce. 

Clarke came rushing in. "Are you all right?" she asked. 

Lexa blinked hard, not looking at her. "Fine," she said. "Dropped the skillet. Didn't mean to startle you."

"Okay," Clarke said. Lexa waited for her to go away, to return to the living room, but she didn't. She stayed exactly where she was, framed in the kitchen doorway, frozen like she wanted to cross the threshold but wasn't sure she was allowed. Or maybe like she was waiting for permission to leave, a formal dismissal. "Can I help?"

Or that. 

"I've got it," Lexa said. "You can—"

"I'd like to help," Clarke said. 

Lexa looked over her shoulder, at the uncertainty on Clarke's face and the determination in her eyes, and knew this wasn't a fight she could win. Or it wasn't one worth fighting, which amounted to the same thing. "Eggs are there," she said, pointing to a bowl on the counter. "Bread's in the box." 

Clarke looked at the bowl, and the eggs of various colors inside, and then at Lexa, and the horror in her eyes was enough to make Lexa's lips quirk. She pressed them together to keep from smiling, not wanting Clarke to think she was laughing at her. "Fresh eggs can be kept at room temperature," she explained, "as long as you don't wash them. Once you wash them the bacteria gets pushed through the shell and you have to keep them cold to stop it from growing. Just got those earlier this week from a lady down the street." She left an envelope of cash in the mailbox and the woman left the eggs on the stoop. They'd only ever spoken once, when they set up the arrangement. 

"Oh," Clarke said. "That's..." She grimaced. "Are you sure?"

Lexa shrugged. "Hasn't killed me yet," she said. 

Clarke looked at her, picking up one of the green eggs gingerly, inspecting the shell. "Have you lived here long?" she asked. 

"Long enough," Lexa said. "Go ahead and wash them. Four, unless you want more than two." 

She turned on the water and held the egg under. "Do I... does it need soap?" she asked, her cheeks flushing.

Lexa swallowed a laugh. "No, just a rinse. You can scrub a little with your fingers. They're getting cooked anyway."

Which brought Clarke up short, like she'd just realized that with the power out, appliances wouldn't be working. "How are you going to cook them?" she asked. 

Lexa grabbed the lighter – the long kind you used for gas grills to keep from singeing your eyebrows off – from its place on top of the fridge and poked it into the burner as she turned the gas on. "Old gas range," she said. "Works even with no power." She looked at Clarke, swallowing a few times before she managed to say anything more. "Yours is electric?"

Clarke nodded. "Gas stoves freak me out." 

"But they have their advantages," Lexa said. "You want cheese?"

"Sure," Clarke said. She set the first egg carefully on the counter and selected another, this one tinged a pale blue. 

Lexa opened the fridge to grab some cheese – also local, though not from one of her direct neighbors – and turned back to see Clarke staring in surprise, because when Lexa had opened the door, the light came on. "Generator," Lexa explained. "Just a small one. I run the fridge off it and not much else. Don't want to burn too much gas." Because then she would have to get more, which meant going into town, which meant people, which meant—

"Smart," Clarke said.

"Sometimes," Lexa said. She went back to making breakfast, lighting another burner and getting out a second pan, buttering bread and grilling it like a grilled cheese sandwich, only it was grilled cheese and egg, with bacon on the side... and after a second's consideration, a peanut butter chocolate cookie for dessert. 

"Peanut butter has protein," she said. "That makes it a breakfast food."

* * *

Lexa's expression was completely serious as she delivered the plate to Clarke, but there was a spark in her eyes, a smile that didn't quite make it to her lips, a laugh trapped behind her teeth. She'd finally relaxed a little, let down her guard, the incident with the curtains forgiven if not forgotten. 

"I used to try to use that argument on my mom all the time," Clarke said. "She never bought it."

"Perks of being a grown-up," Lexa said, and the spark dimmed and died, and she looked away. "One of the few." 

Clarke almost reached for her, to put a hand on her arm and offer comfort, but she stopped herself at the last moment. She didn't want to upset her further, and she got the impression that unexpected physical contact would do just that. 

They ate mostly in silence off TV trays on the couch because Lexa didn't appear to have a table. Clarke guessed maybe you didn't need one when you spent all of your time alone. She tried not to be too obvious as she looked around the room... but there was nothing to see. No pictures, no art, no shelves of books. Nothing. If not for the coat and boots by the door, you could walk into the place and not know anyone lived here. 

_How can you stand it?_ , she wanted to ask. _How can you sit here and stare at blank walls all day, every day? What do you_ do _?_

But she didn't ask. She didn't think she would get an answer, for one, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know, for another. Maybe all the interesting stuff – the things that meant something to her – was in Lexa's bedroom. Clarke doubted she would have occasion to find out. 

"Looks like it's stopped," Lexa said, looking out the window. "When you're done, we might as well make a start on shoveling out again." She shrugged, like Clarke could make of that suggestion what she would, and Lexa didn't care. 

"That's good, right?" Clarke said. "That means they should get the power back on soon?"

Lexa shrugged again. "Depends why it's out and how many people. They'll worry about town first. Might be a few days before they get out here." Her tone was nonchalant, like it was no big deal and things like this happened all the time. 

Clarke blinked. "A few _days_?" They weren't _that_ far from town, were they? 

Lexa looked at her, and something in her expression softened. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need," she said. "We've got plenty of food and plenty of wood." Her voice had lost a little of its gruffness, and for a second, Clarke thought she saw a flicker of who Lexa might once have been, before whatever happened that made her retreat from the world. 

"Thank you," she said, squeezing the words around the lump in her throat. 

Lexa's eyes flicked away again. "I'm going to go get started," she said. "You come out when you're ready."

* * *

She'd lost her mind. There was no other explanation for it. She'd finally and completely lost her damn mind. 

And they were having a field day. 

_You realize you just left her alone in your house, right? You never leave anyone alone in your house. You never even let anyone into your house in the first place! Aren't you worried she'll go snooping?_

"She won't," Lexa said. "She'll be out in a minute."

_You hope._

"She _will_ ," Lexa insisted. Clarke's breakfast had been almost gone, all but the cookie, by the time Lexa had gotten herself geared up to go outside. It would take a few minutes for Clarke to get herself dressed, and then she would be out. 

_You trust her,_ the other voice said, soft and warm like the cashmere scarf she'd given Lexa one Christmas. Lexa had never worn it – she'd left it behind when they'd been shipped out to the desert because what did she need it for there? – and never would because she'd given it back, in the end, buried it with her because if there was a heaven it would be a perpetually chilly fall day – her favorite kind – and she would need it. 

"She's not a threat," Lexa said.

_Most people aren't,_ she pointed out. _You still don't trust them. But you trust her._

Lexa heaved a shovelful of snow off her front step and dug in again. "She needs me more than I need her.

_You sure about that?_ the first voice (really the second... no, third...) came back, louder, more demanding, less willing to compromise. 

"Yes," Lexa hissed, throwing the snow harder than she meant to, and sputtering when the wind caught it and blew it back in her face, which set the voice off into peals of laughter. Because watching Lexa suffer was one of her favorite things... at least when the suffering was small indignities that caused no real harm. She hadn't liked it when—

The door opened, and Clarke came out. "I should go change," she said. "I don't want to sweat in my pajamas." 

Lexa nodded. "I'll be over in a bit. Need to clear the path first."

Clarke nodded. "See you soon," she said. 

Lexa ignored the little flutter in her stomach at the way the light filtering through the clouds caught Clarke's eyes, and the way they crinkled at the corners so Lexa knew she was smiling (unless she was just squinting) behind her scarf. She brushed against Lexa as she squeezed by, and Lexa's heart tightened as she watched her walk away. 

_She's only going across the street,_ the first voice said in a tone that would have been an eyeroll if it had eyes. 

_She'll be back,_ the second reassured her. 

"Doesn't matter," Lexa said, to them and to herself. 

_It does. **She** does._

"Says you," Lexa muttered. 

_Says **you**._ A pause, like she was waiting for a response from Lexa, but Lexa didn't want to give her the satisfaction, but she had to know what she meant by that, because Lexa had said no such thing.

_No? Then why did you say 'we'?_

* * *

Clarke waded across the street, the snow up to her knees and higher in places. By the time she made it to her own front door, the idea of keeping her pajamas dry was a lost cause. Normally she would just pop them in the dryer, but that wasn't an option. Maybe Lexa had a rack she could hang them on near the wood stove to dry them out. 

She changed into what she thought was appropriate for shoveling snow, then packed a bag with things to get her through a few days. She hoped Lexa was wrong, that the plows would come, and the electric company or whoever was responsible for repairs, and she would be back at home by tonight or tomorrow. She didn't want to overstay her welcome... even if Lexa had reassured her that she was welcome for as long as she needed to stay. 

She'd even used that word: welcome. 

Clarke packed her tablet and some books and a few other things to keep herself busy, then set the bag just inside her door. She thought about packing some art supplies but decided that might be taking things a step too far. She settled on just her sketchbook and some pencils, tucking them carefully in with everything else, and went back outside. 

In the time it had taken her to pack, Lexa had made it down her front walk and was now carving a path down the sidewalk. Her driveway was as snow-covered as ever. Clarke waved when Lexa looked toward her – at least she thought she did, but maybe not because she didn't wave back – and picked up her own shovel, despite her muscles groaning in protest.

She wasn't sure how long they were out there. The day got brighter, but the clouds never broke so she couldn't see the sun's position in the sky... and wouldn't have been able to tell the time by it anyway. Who did she think she was fooling? Finally Clarke's driveway was clear again, and the sidewalks and walkway, and she'd dug her car out of the snowbank it had become overnight. 

"Should we do yours?" Clarke asked, jutting her chin in the direction of the expanse from Lexa's detached garage to the street, which was a pure, untouched blanket of snow. Lexa followed her gaze and sighed. "I guess," she said, like she didn't see the point but was willing to go along with it to avoid an argument. 

By the time they were finished, Clarke's muscles had gone from groaning to screaming, and her stomach was growling like she hadn't just eaten... but maybe she hadn't just eaten. She had her phone in her pocket, but that was buried under layers of insulation so it was more effort than it was worth to check the time. For all she knew it was lunch time. Her body was very good at reminding her when it was time to eat. 

She looked at Lexa, her wiry, muscular build evident even under a parka and snow pants and wondered if she could say the same. There was something off about her, something not quite right. Clarke could have sworn she'd heard her muttering to herself more than once, which didn't necessarily mean anything, but when combined with the way she just disappeared into herself sometimes...

Lexa let them back into the house, stomping the snow off her boots and setting them neatly in the tray. "You can shower first," she said. "If you want to."

Despite the fact that the temperature was less than freezing (or Clarke assumed it was, from the way it bit into any exposed skin) the physical labor had made her work up a sweat, and a long hot shower sounded amazing. Except-- "You have hot water?" she asked, before realizing that she knew she did, because she'd washed the eggs in it, and hadn't even given it a second thought.

"Old water heater," Lexa said. "Pilot light's always on. Doesn't need electricity to work." Clarke thought she almost - _almost_ \- smiled. "Newer isn't always better." 

"Thank you," Clarke said.

Lexa nodded, just a dip of her chin. "I'll get you a towel."

Clarke tried not to stay in the shower too long, not wanting to use up all the hot water because even if the tank would still work to heat more, there wasn't an infinite supply at the moment, and it would be a pretty shitty show of gratitude to force Lexa to have a cold shower. When she got out, she discovered Lexa had already made lunch – soup and grilled cheese – and the urge to throw her arms around her and hug her was nearly overwhelming. But Lexa slipped away before she'd even had a chance to thank her, disappearing into the bathroom, then her bedroom, and didn't emerge for a long time. 

The day passed slowly and quietly – too quietly, Clarke thought, but what did she expect? They weren't friends snowed in together, having an extended slumber party. They were strangers, and Lexa was doing Clarke a favor, but she showed no interest in getting to know her, and Clarke had to respect that. She might have considered it a companionable silence, if Lexa hadn't seemed like she was a million miles away while sitting in the same room. 

It was only when she pulled out her sketchbook, wanting to take advantage of the light before it disappeared completely, that Lexa showed any interest. "You're an artist?" she asked, looking up from the tablet she'd been staring at for the last hour or more, barely moving.

Clarke nodded. "I teach art at the schools," she said. 

Lexa nodded and went back to her screen, but Clarke caught her glancing her way every few minutes, and finally she held up her sketchbook. "Do you want to see?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Do you want to see?"

Did she? 

The answer was yes, had always been yes, but also no, because it wasn't Clarke's drawings she wanted to see. It was hers. Costia's. 

Because she'd been an artist too. 

And Lexa had always begged to see what she was drawing, but it had taken weeks, months, before Costia had given in and shown her. 

_Why?_ , she'd asked. _Why are you here instead of in art school? Why are you wasting your talent? Why are you wasting your life?_

Costia had shrugged. She hadn't had a good answer. Or she had, only it had turned out to be a lie. Because she'd enlisted to serve her country, to fight the bad guys, to make a difference... only when they'd gotten where they were going, it turned out that the bad guys were just... guys. People. People just like them. The ones they were fighting, the ones that were dying... they weren't the enemy. The enemy was tucked up safe in their ivory towers, out of the reach, calling the shots and playing god and...

And then, later, _To find you._ Because in Costia's world everything happened for a reason. 

_And what reason was there for you to be captured?_ , Lexa demanded. _What reason was there for you to be tortured, and killed, and—_

"Lexa?"

Lexa blinked, and blinked again, clearing the veil of red – blood and rage – from her vision. "Yes," she choked, though she hardly remembered the question. 

Clarke scooted to the edge of the couch and held out her sketchbook. Lexa had to unclench her fingers to take it, and when she did they shook. She clutched the edges of the book tightly, hoping to still their trembling before Clarke noticed.

"That's my friend Raven," Clarke said. "Still a work in progress, but you get the idea. She's an engineer. I met her in college."

College. They'd talked about college. Where they would go and what they would do when their tour was done. College, a house, maybe kids...

"Maybe when it's done I'll take a picture of it, send it to her for Christmas," Clarke said with a shrug. "Is sending someone a drawing of themselves weird?"

"No," Lexa said. Because once people knew Costia had even a hint of artistic talent, she'd been under a constant barrage of 'Can you draw me?' People wanted to see themselves, or maybe they wanted to be seen, and a drawing was proof that they were. Proof that they were real, that they existed, that—

"You can flip through if you want," Clarke said. "Some of the sketches are rough, but I don't think there's anything truly embarrassing in there." Her mouth stretched into a grin, and maybe she winked or maybe her face just twitched.

Lexa turned the pages dutifully, back and back, her eyes blurring with tears she refused to let fall while Clarke told her about this person and that place, where she'd been when she'd done the sketch or what she'd been thinking, and Lexa tried to listen, but the words washed over her like waves and she was drowning. "Excuse me," she said, closing the book abruptly and shoving it back into Clarke's hands.

* * *

Clarke watched her go, the click of the lock on the bathroom door audible in the stillness, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional crackle or pop of the wood in the stove as it shifted. 

When Lexa still hadn't emerged ten tense minutes later, Clarke got up and knocked lightly on the door. "I'm sorry," she said, "if I upset you. It wasn't my intention. If there's anything—"

The door opened abruptly, and Clarke stumbled forward a step, nearly colliding with Lexa. Lexa caught her, her hands on Clarke's upper arms strong and gentle at the same time. Clarke looked up into her red-rimmed eyes and wanted to apologize again, but the words stuck in her throat because the contrast between the iris and the bloodshot white only made the green more striking. 

"Don't," Lexa said, her voice husky in a way that sent a shiver straight to Clarke's core. "Don't apologize. It's not you."

It sounded like the start of a break-up. _'It's not you, it's me.'_ Maybe it was even true for once. Maybe whatever was going on in Lexa's head had nothing to do with her. 

That didn't stop her from wanting to help. _Needing_ to help.

"I should get dinner started," Lexa said, her hands finally dropping from Clarke's arms, and Clarke felt colder with the absence of her touch. Lexa started to take a step forward, and they did an awkward shuffle as Clarke tried to shift out of her way in the narrow hall. Lexa finally managed to squeeze past, but she only made it two steps before she turned around and looked at Clarke. "Are you coming?"

Clarke followed her to the kitchen and watched as she got out ingredients. "Pasta okay?" Lexa asked.

"Fine," Clarke said. 

Lexa nodded, then began issuing orders to Clarke as if she was a soldier Lexa expected to just fall in line, but her tone was gentle, and Clarke wondered if she even knew she was doing it. Clarke did as she was told, glad Lexa had chosen to include her at all rather than shooing her away because she was a guest. 

Soon they were back in the living room with their TV trays, and Clarke's eyes closed as she took the first bite. It was pasta and chicken and asparagus and onions, doused with balsamic vinegar, and she hadn't been sure about it while they were making it, but it worked. It really worked. 

"This is amazing," she said. "Who taught you to cook?"

She realized her mistake as soon as the words were out. Lexa's fork almost slipped from her fingers, and her other hand curled into a fist, pressed hard enough into her leg Clarke could see the dent. It had seemed like an innocent enough question, but anything even remotely personal about Lexa seemed to be a landmine, and she'd just triggered one, and there was no taking it back.

Lexa sucked in a breath through her nose and let it out slowly. "A friend," she said, flat and final. 

Clarke nodded, afraid to say anything else. They spent the rest of the meal in silence. Lexa glanced at her once or twice, almost like she was working herself up to say something, but no words ever came, and when they were done she held out her hand to take Clarke's plate.

"I can—" Clarke started, but Lexa just kept her hand out, insistent, and Clarke obediently handed it over. "Thanks."

Lexa grunted and disappeared into the kitchen.

* * *

_You're allowed to talk about us,_ the voice said. The one who had taught her how to cook, once upon a time, with extremely limited resources while they were deployed, and with any and everything she wanted when they were home again, before being shipped back out to burn alive until they were mere husks of the people they'd once been. Until they weren't people at all. 

_I can't,_ Lexa said. 

_You won't,_ Anya answered. _There's a difference._

There wasn't. Not really. Some things you just couldn't talk about, because the wounds still hadn't healed and never would, and people didn't want to know. Not really. They thought they did, but they wanted heroic stories they could pat themselves on the back about, _Look at the good our troops are doing, look how brave they are, fighting tyranny and oppression and—_

It was bullshit. It was all bullshit. A lie they were told – a lie they told themselves – to make it okay to kill. To make the deaths palatable. 

No one wanted to hear that.

Lexa scrubbed the dishes quickly, with more force than was necessary, and then dried each one just to kill time because what else did she have to do? Go back into the living room to face Clarke and her questions and her stories and the memories they dredged up that threatened to overwhelm Lexa at every turn? 

Clarke was an artist. She saw things. Lexa had no doubt she'd seen the cracks in Lexa's façade already; she would rather not let her see her shatter. Which meant not letting Clarke see her at all, because she was so, so fragile.

She slipped back into the living room and headed for the door, shoving her feet into her boots. 

"Where are you going?" Clarke asked, putting her phone down. "Do you need—"

Lexa waved her off. "Just going to put gas in the generator," she said. It probably didn't need it and could wait 'til morning, but Lexa didn't know what morning would bring. Don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today and all that. "I'll be right back."

She put on her coat and went out into the cold. The wind had picked up and was blowing and drifting the snow, not completely undoing their hard work, but it wouldn't hurt for them to come out again to clear the walkways, at least, tomorrow. Lexa sighed, wishing she'd just stayed inside, hibernating until winter was over.

_You don't mean that,_ Costia said. _If you had to do it all over again, you would still help her._

Lexa had no answer for that. She went to the garage and heaved the big door upward, ducking under to grab one of the containers of gas, and took it out to the generator. She switched it off while she filled it, realizing belatedly that she should have warned Clarke she would have to do so. But she probably trusted Lexa to know what she was doing. It was only for a few minutes; maybe she wouldn't notice. 

When the tank was full, Lexa returned the much lighter gas can to the garage and closed it, then trudged back inside. 

Clarke looked up, a smile flickering to her face when she saw Lexa, and Lexa looked away, because it didn't make sense. Why would Clarke smile? Maybe it was just gratitude because it meant she wasn't stuck in a frigid house by herself, with nothing to do and nothing to eat. 

She started to retreat to her room, then realized Clarke was going to need somewhere to sleep. Would the polite thing be to offer Clarke – her guest – the bed? Lexa slept on the couch often as not anyway... when she slept at all. But the living room would be warmer, so maybe she ought to let Clarke have the couch. And Clarke might argue if she offered her the bed, saying she didn't want to put Lexa out since she was the guest. 

Of course in the moment she might have welcomed their input, the voices in Lexa's head were silent. 

_Really?_ , she thought. _All day long you won't shut up, and now when I need you, you've got nothing?_

Crickets.

Lexa sighed. Maybe it as better, since they seemed to think there was more going on here than there actually was. Anya would probably suggest they _both_ take the bed, to conserve body heat, and Costia...

Lexa fought down the urge to reach up and touch the dog tags around her neck, tucked under her flannel where Clarke couldn't see and be tempted to ask questions that Lexa wouldn't – couldn't – answer. 

"Lexa?" Clarke asked, her voice nudging Lexa out of her reverie. 

How long had she been standing there? 

"I'll get you some sheets and blankets," Lexa said, making a snap decision to give Clarke the couch, and the rest of the space to move freely in. Because Lexa didn't know where her mind might go or what her body might do, and it was better if there was a door between her and the rest of the world that could stay closed until she was fit for human company... or until the generator needed more gas or the fire more wood.

"Thank you," Clarke said, when Lexa came back with a stack of bedding. 

"It's pretty comfortable," Lexa said, nodding to the couch. "If you get too cold..." She showed Clarke how to add more wood to the fire, but from the way Clarke hung back when she opened the door like she might be sucked into the fiery depths of hell if she got too close, Lexa suspected she wouldn't be touching it unless she absolutely had to. "Or you can come get me," Lexa said. She put in the biggest log she could find, along with a few smaller ones. "That ought to get us through the night."

There it was again. _Us._ As if they were partners, a team, a pair...

"Good night, Clarke," she said. 

"Good night, Lexa," Clarke said.

* * *

In the morning, Lexa didn't get up. Clarke had turned the couch into a bed not long after Lexa disappeared into her room, the exertion of the day catching up to her, along with the knowledge that she ought to be conserving the battery on her phone because she didn't know when she would be able to charge it again... and there was no one around to talk to online anyway. They were all busy with holiday festivities... maybe even with each other. She'd guessed she would find out on social media in the morning... but then she didn't have the heart to look.

She folded the sheets and blankets up, turning the couch back into a place where people could sit. With any luck, she wouldn't need to use them again, because the power would be restored. The plows had finally come through late the night before, stirring Clarke briefly from sleep. 

Her stomach growled, and she went to the kitchen and grabbed a few cookies to tide her over until Lexa got up to make breakfast. Not that Clarke needed someone to cook for her; she was perfectly capable of feeding herself. Except she didn't exactly know how to turn the stove on and was more than a little nervous about lighting it, and anyway, it seemed rude to eat without her host. Maybe once Lexa got the range going, she would cook for both of them as a gesture of gratitude.

But Lexa didn't get up. 

Clarke finally gave in and got herself a bowl of cereal, wishing for oatmeal or something else warm, because the fire had burned low in the night, and the temperature in the house had dropped. It wasn't _cold_ , but it was only just barely clinging to warm, and Clarke knew Lexa had showed her how to feed it, but what if she did something wrong and caught the whole place on fire?

She wrapped herself in one of the blankets and drew for a little, and then read for a little, but her attention kept drifting to the bedroom that she couldn't see from here, but whose closed door was a looming presence in her mind. She strained her ears for any signs of movement, any indication that Lexa would be out soon. Even if they just sat quietly together, maybe today the silence would feel more companionable. 

It was pathetic, Clarke thought, how bad she was at being alone. 

She wasn't sure how much time passed because she refused to let herself check her phone, but she was sure it wasn't as long as it felt. But if yesterday and the day before were any indication, Lexa was usually an early riser. The fact that she was still in her room, presumably in bed... it felt unusual, at least in Clarke's extremely limited experience. 

Under the cover of the fact that Lexa had told her she could come get her if she needed help with the fire, Clarke knocked on the door.

* * *

_Go away!_ , Lexa shouted, but no sound came from her lips. _Leave me alone!_

Except she wasn't alone. She was never truly alone. Her fingers ached from being twisted in the chain around her neck, over and over again, and her shoulders ached from being tensed up around her ears, and her belly was a ball of fire, lanced through with stabbing pains that eased when she didn't think about them, a little... but it was impossible not to think about them. Just like it was impossible not to think about Them. 

"Lexa?"

_Sorry,_ she thought. _Lexa's not in at the moment. Please leave a message and she'll get back to you if she returns._

A bitter laugh bubbled up, because it was the kind of thing Anya would say. Her thumb rubbed over the embossed letters of her name, instinctively knowing which one was her without looking, because she'd done this so many times. 

The doorknob twisted and the door cracked open, and Lexa cringed. Hadn't she locked it? She could have sworn she'd locked it. She sucked in a breath and forced herself upright, shoving her hair out of her face. 

"Sorry," Clarke said. "It's just... the fire's out. Or almost. And you said—"

"Okay," Lexa grunted. "Just give me a minute." The words grated against her throat, each one a shard of glass, and she swallowed the taste of blood. She glared until Clarke disappeared from the door, and shoved her feet into her ratty old slippers, cursing herself for giving Clarke the good ones. Had she even said thank you? And how the hell had the fire gone out? She'd shown her how to feed it, and it wasn't like it was that fucking hard. Open door, shove wood in, close door. Done. 

She made herself stand straight, even as her body screamed, and shuffled to the wood stove. It was cold in the room – colder than it should be, thanks to Clarke's inability to do even the most basic of tasks, and –

_She didn't grow up doing this,_ Costia reminded her. 

_Neither did I,_ Lexa snarled. _I learned. I taught myself. I didn't need anyone to show me, and I sure as hell didn't need anyone to show me **twice**. What kind of a soldier—_

_She's not a soldier,_ Costia said. _And you did tell her to come get you if she needed help._

Lexa yanked open the stove door and shoved logs in with more force than was necessary, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and a few out into the room. She stomped them out before they could burn holes in anything. Once she was sure the fire would burn for a few hours unattended, she shut the door again. 

"Are you hungry?" Clarke asked. "I could make—"

"No," Lexa said, cutting her off. 

"Oh," Clarke said. "Okay." She looked down, then around like she was searching for something else to offer, even though everything in the place was Lexa's. Lexa watched her scramble and come up blank for another second, then turned back toward her room.

"The plow came by," Clarke said. "Finally."

Lexa clenched her teeth so hard her jaw ached. _So?_ , she wanted to ask. _So what? I'm not going anywhere._ She looked at Clarke and there was... hope? in her eyes, and then Lexa understood. _You want me to come to your rescue again, Princess? Is that it? You want to be able to get away from me, so you think I should go out there and bust my ass to free you?_

But when she thought about it, it wasn't a bad idea. If she shoveled out the end of Clarke's driveway, Clarke could drive into town or wherever she wanted to go, somewhere where there was power and heat and all the things that princesses needed to keep them happy.

Lexa went to the door and began bundling herself into her snow gear again, not waiting for Clarke to follow, not caring if she did. She would happily do all the work herself if it meant getting rid of this damnable girl who turned her world upside down just be existing. She slammed the door behind her as she stepped out into the bitter wind.

* * *

Lexa was pissed. She tried to hide it, her face smooth and blank, but it was there in her eyes. She was pissed, and she hated Clarke, and she was regretting ever letting her in in the first place. 

_They'll get the power back on soon,_ Clarke thought. _Now that the roads are clear._

Even if they didn't... maybe being in her own place wouldn't be so bad. Sure, it would be cold, and dark, and she wouldn't be able to cook anything, but...

_But at least you wouldn't be pissing someone off just be existing._ Tears pricked her eyes and she rubbed at them angrily. It was stupid to get upset because a stranger didn't like her. Why should she expect any different? Even her friends didn't like her, not really. They were probably all glad she was gone, no matter what they said. 

She stepped outside and the cold sucked the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping. She pulled her scarf up over her mouth and nose to try and warm it before it entered her system, but she still found herself wheezing as she tromped out to where Lexa was working, digging into the heavy, compacted snow at the end of her driveway and heaving it to the side. She didn't look up when Clarke joined her, but Clarke thought she saw her shake her head, like, 'What does this bitch think she's going to do?' 

Clarke jammed her shovel into a chunk of snow that was already starting to crust over with ice, determined to prove her wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

_She's going to hurt herself,_ Costia said. 

Lexa scowled behind her scarf. _That's on her, not me,_ she said. _It's not my problem._

Anya snorted. _Since when has anything been 'not your problem'? For as long as I've known you, you've insisted on carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. It's what you do. It's who you are._

_It was my **job** ,_ Lexa snarled back. _You were all my responsibility._

_We were all each other's responsibility,_ Costia said. _'We few, we happy few, we band of—'_

_Sisters,_ Anya interrupted, as she always had. 

_And brothers,_ Lexa thought, the word like a punch to the gut, because it had been a brother, an actual, literal brother, not hers but might as well have been, who had been the first. His tag burned against her chest even as the icy wind sucked feeling from her cheeks and thighs, and she was reminded of the pain that had woken her long before dawn. For a moment, she'd almost forgotten.

_Let her hurt herself,_ Lexa said. _I don't care._

_But you do,_ Costia said. _You care more than anyone._

_Not anymore,_ Lexa said. _That's why I came out here. To get away from everyone and everything._

_And look how well that's working out for you,_ Anya said. 

_Just tell her to slow down,_ Costia said. _Tell her to pace herself._

_The sooner we're done, the sooner she's gone,_ Lexa said. _And the sooner she's gone, the sooner I can go back to—_

_What?_ Costia demanded. _The sooner you can go back to what?_

But they all already knew the answer.

* * *

Clarke tried to keep her attention on chipping away at the newly formed iceberg at the end of the driveway, but she couldn't stop herself from looking over at Lexa every minute or two, watching the way her face twisted, her eyes narrowing as if she was getting more and more annoyed with someone... and since Clarke was the only one around, she knew that someone had to be her. 

She wished she knew what she'd done. Was waking Lexa up to tend to the fire when Lexa had told her she could really such a crime? Or asking if Lexa was hungry, or mentioning the plow had come by? She hadn't intended the observation as a hint that she thought Lexa should do something about it, but Lexa had obviously taken it that way, because here they were. 

This snow was heavier than the powdery stuff they'd shoveled the day before; it took twice as much effort to get half as far. The fact that it seemed to be turning into ice while they worked didn't help, and Clarke tried to go faster just to get it done. They finally made it through to the street... but an equally large mountain faced them on the other side. Clarke leaned on her shovel, trying to catch her breath, and looked at Lexa. "You don't have to," she said, raising her voice to make herself heard through muffling layers and over the hiss and howl of the wind. "I can—"

Lexa ignored her, stomping across the street, clambering up and over to attack from the other side, where she wasn't in danger of being hit by a car in the unlikely event that someone drove by. Farther down Clarke could see other neighbors moving around, the scrape of snow shovels and the roar of snowblowers cutting into the quiet, reminding her that they weren't the only two people left in the world. Maybe one of them could even...

_The power will be back soon,_ Clarke reminded herself. _By tonight you'll be sleeping in your own bed, in your own house, eating your own food. By tonight, everything will be back to normal._

Except it wouldn't, because now she knew Lexa. Maybe not any of the details of her – including her last name – but she knew she existed, knew she lived alone in the dark, knew that though she showed no outward signs of injury, she was in pain, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. There was no unknowing it, and it would keep her up at night, wondering and worrying, because...

... because it was what Clarke did. She worried about everyone, all the time, prioritizing their needs above her own, even when the cost was higher than they had any right to ask her to pay. Even when it cost her everything.

Especially when it cost her everything.

Clarke pushed the thoughts – the memories – away and joined Lexa, who was moving more slowly now, and even though it meant they would be out here longer, Clarke was grateful for the change in pace because it meant she didn't have to try to keep up while her entire body was screaming at her to slow down, to stop, to go back inside and curl up with some hot cocoa and a book and leave this whole mess for another day. 

By the time they finished, Clarke was seriously starting to worry about frostbite, and wondered if Lexa would let Clarke check her fingers and toes for any sign. "I'll be right back," she said, going into her house to grab a few packets of instant cocoa and a can of whipped cream, because she doubted Lexa would stock anything so frivolous in her pantry. She grabbed another change of clothes, just in case, and shut and locked the door behind her out of habit more than necessity. 

When she turned around, Lexa was gone. Clarke's heart leapt into her throat, then plunged back to its rightful place with a sickening lurch. She looked both ways before crossing the street – habit again – and skidded up Lexa's driveway, sure she was going to find the door locked against her and Lexa pretending not to be home. 

"I'm sorry!" Clarke said too quietly to be heard, tears burning her eyes as she lifted her hand to knock. Lexa would at least let her retrieve her things, wouldn't she? "I don't know what I did, but I'm—" 

The door popped open as soon as her gloved knuckles made contact, and Clarke swallowed a sob of relief. Lexa glanced up when Clarke stepped inside, then quickly away. She finished removing her snow-caked layers and disappeared into the kitchen. 

Clarke followed her, going to the fridge and putting the whipped cream inside. Lexa didn't look at her – seemed almost to be pretending she didn't exist – and she didn't invite Clarke's participation in the preparation of lunch, so Clarke retreated again. 

A bowl of soup and a plate of grilled cheese was deposited in front of her not long after. "Thank you," Clarke said, looking up at Lexa with an uncertain smile. But all she saw was Lexa's back, retreating down the hall. "Aren't you going to eat?" Clarke asked. 

The only answer was the click of Lexa's bedroom door closing behind her.

* * *

As soon as feeling seeped back into Lexa's limbs, the pain returned with it, like the plummeting temperature outside had kept it at bay for as long as it could, but now that she was warm again, there would be hell to pay. 

It was tempting to just go outside, without her jacket and boots this time, without anything to protect her from the elements, and just let it steal the pain – and everything else – from her once and for all.

But Clarke would come after her. She didn't know much about her temporary roommate, but she knew that. Clarke was the friend who was always checking up and checking in, making sure everyone was okay, everyone was happy, everyone had what they needed. 

In other words, exactly the kind of person Lexa didn't need in her life 

_Or exactly the kind of person you need more than anything,_ Costia said. 

Lexa shook her head no. "I'm not going to drag her down," she mumbled into her pillow. "I'm not going to be a burden." 

_Isn't it up to her to decide what she considers a burden?_

"No," Lexa grunted. "It's not. Now leave me alone."

Costia didn't respond, but she wasn't gone. Not really. She never was, and she probably never would be. 

Lexa tried to breath around the pain, but the air rasped in her lungs, scraping them raw, and she moaned and coughed and grabbed a tissue and spit, expecting blood but it was only saliva, and she crumpled it up and threw it, aiming for the waste basket but missing, and she thought about getting up to pick it up but burrowed under the covers instead, her knees tucked tight to her chest and her fingers tangling in the chain around her neck again, twisting and twisting...

She didn't know she slept until she woke, every sense instantly on high alert, telling her she wasn't alone. "Who's there?" she gasped, rooting around under her pillow for a weapon, except she didn't have one because she couldn't be trusted. She couldn't trust herself. 

"Clarke," the apparition in the doorway said. "I—you were—" She took a step closer, but there was no light to see her by. "Are you sick?"

Lexa laughed, only it wasn't really a laugh. It was just an exhale, somewhere between a wheeze and a sob, but silent except for the rush of air from her lungs. _Define sick,_ she thought. _I'm okay,_ she thought. "No," she said, because that, at least, was true. 

"You were—" Clarke stopped again. "It sounded like you were – are – in pain."

_Oh._ Lexa freed her fingers, imagining the purple stain of her skin ebbing away. _Shit._

Clarke took another step toward her, and now she was right next to the bed, close enough to reach out and touch Lexa if she wanted to. 

Did she want to? 

Did Lexa want her to? 

"If you're sick... or hurt... I can help. Maybe." She sucked in a breath. "I'm a doctor. Or I was. I guess I still am." 

Lexa suddenly wished she could see Clarke's face, because the words had dragged from her lips like they hurt to say, like the admission was one Clarke was as hesitant to make as Lexa was to talk about, well, anything. And for a moment the need to know more, to know why - was enough to drive her own pain into the background. 

"I thought you were an art teacher," Lexa said. 

"I am," Clarke said. "Now." She leaned against the bed, the mattress shifting as she sat on the edge of it. "Tell me where it hurts."

Lexa closed her eyes, reached up and touched the tags around her neck, the second and third ones, and let out a shaky breath. "Everywhere," she said, "and nowhere." She opened her eyes again, glad Clarke couldn't see the tears that filled them. "It's not real." That's what the doctors said, anyway. "It's all in my head."

Clarke hissed, and shifted closer, close enough that Lexa could feel the warmth radiating from her through the blankets. "That's bullshit," she said. 

Anger flared, searing her nerves, and Lexa opened her mouth to argue, but Clarke wasn't done.

"Even if it is 'all in your head', that doesn't mean it's not real."

Lexa had to consciously think about breathing to move the air trapped in her lungs. "... what?"

"Any halfway decent psychologist could tell you that," Clarke said. "And any doctor worth anything would know it too. Like phantom limb syndrome. Obviously the pain isn't 'real' in the sense that a body part that isn't there anymore can't feel pain, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt! It doesn't mean the patient doesn't feel it! What kind of idiots told you your pain isn't real?"

For a minute, Lexa just stared. For a minute, the pain was gone. Gone like it had never been in the first place. Gone like it would never come back. Because Clarke believed her. 

Clarke believed her pain was real, that she wasn't making it up, that it wasn't just her being weak or wanting attention or any of the other things she'd been accused of since her doctors declared her 100% recovered and discharged her from their care. 

And then it came back, but more like teeth than knives, more like gnawing than stabbing, and it dulled in the face of the relief that flooded through her, crashing over her like a wave, because Clarke believed her when no one else ever had.

* * *

"Hey," Clarke said. "Hey, it's okay." Because that's what you said when someone who'd never shown more than a hint of emotion suddenly had tears streaming down their cheeks as they looked at you like they'd just looked up through a break in the clouds and seen heaven. "You're okay." 

She grabbed a tissue from the box next to the bed and handed it to Lexa, and Lexa swiped at her cheeks, but the tears kept coming, her chest heaving as she sucked in air, which came back out in sobs that sounded almost a little like laughter. 

"I'll be right back," Clarke said, going to find the little LED lantern she knew was in the kitchen, bringing it into the bedroom so she could actually see Lexa. She noticed a few candles scattered on various surfaces, and a lighter next to the tissues, and went around lighting them until the room flickered with their warm glow, and the air filled with the soft scent of melting beeswax. 

By the time she was done, Lexa's tears had mostly dried, and Clarke found herself squirming a little as Lexa watched her, suddenly worried she might be mad at Clarke like she had been with the curtains the day before. "I'm sorry," she said. "I should have—"

"Why aren't you a doctor anymore?" Lexa asked. 

Clarke sighed. Of course Lexa would ask the one thing that Clarke didn't want to talk about – didn't even want to think about – as her first attempt at conversation. Because that was the kind of luck Clarke had. "It's a long story," she said. 

"I've got time," Lexa replied. 

Clarke hesitated. Why should she give Lexa something so personal when Lexa wasn't going to give her anything in return? 

But that wasn't really how things worked, was it? It wasn't supposed to be. Relationships – friendships – whatever this was – weren't tit for tat. They weren't 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours'. And Lexa had already let her see her at her most vulnerable, had handed her the key that might just unlock all of her secrets... if Clarke could get through all the defenses she put up and get to the lock it belonged to. 

Maybe this was the first step. 

"I graduated med school at the top of my class," Clarke said. "My mother was – is – a doctor, so I'd been exposed to it my whole life. I got an internship at one of the top hospitals in the country, and everything was going well... the attendings loved me, the other interns hated me... and then I lost a patient. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't because I missed something or did something wrong. There wasn't anything anyone could have done. It happens sometimes. And then I lost another. And another. Bad things happen in threes, right?" She forced a smile, but it fell away a second later. "They started calling me the Angel of Death. Not to my face, but I heard the whispers. And finally I just... couldn't do it anymore. I left, went back to school, became an art teacher." She shrugged. "I can't hurt anyone with art."

Clarke looked away, afraid to see the look on Lexa's face, whether it was disgust or pity or something else entirely. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt the warm press of skin against hers, Lexa's long, elegant fingers brushing ever-so-gently over her own. She looked up again. 

"I was shot," Lexa said. "Armor-piercing round. I should have died. I did die, technically. They brought me back. I don't know why. I didn't want to come back. Ever since..." She swallowed. "Ever since, I've been in pain. Even after I was fully healed. Even after there was 'no physiological reason' that I should be in pain... it's still there."

"What about a psychologist?" Clarke asked as gently as she could. "If they're telling you it's all in your head, shouldn't they have you see someone who can help with that?"

Lexa laughed, and Clarke could almost taste the bitterness. "It's the VA," she said. "Overworked and underpaid and never enough resources to go around. I'm not crazy enough to ever make it to the top of the list."

"You're not crazy!" Clarke said, a little too sharp and a little too loud, and Lexa flinched. "Sorry," Clarke said, softening her voice to match the ambience of the room. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," Lexa said. "For believing that." 

Clarke pressed her lips together. Of course she believed it, because it was true. Having PTSD – and there was no doubt in her mind that Lexa was suffering from a severe case of it – didn't make her crazy. But it _did_ mean she was suffering.

"What can I do?" Clarke asked. "How can I help?"

* * *

Lexa's kneejerk reaction was to say that there was nothing she could do, nothing that helped... but that wasn't entirely true. Yesterday she'd barely felt a twinge. She'd been too busy focusing on clearing snow and making sure Clarke was warm and fed and safe from the storm. It had caught up to her, but for a little while...

"I'm sure they taught you breathing exercises and meditation and visualization and all that while you were recovering," Clarke said. "While they still believed you had pain that needed managing. I'm also sure you would be using them if they worked. So what – if anything – helps?"

_You,_ Lexa thought. _You help._

_You see? Anya crowed. _I knew it! I knew you couldn't resist—__

_Leave her alone!_ , Costia said, but she sounded like she was almost laughing. _Let her speak for herself._

But the words didn't come, and finally Clarke filled in the silence. "Can I tell you what helps me when I get stuck in my head and start spiraling?"

Lexa nodded, doubting anything Clarke said would be something she hadn't heard before, but at least Clarke's voice might drown out the peanut gallery. The last thing she needed right now was to let slip how far from the truth Clarke's belief in her sanity was. 

"I take a shower," Clarke said. "Put on clean clothes. Something I like. Something comfy. Something that makes me happy. I drink some water and eat something, even if I'm not hungry, because usually when I'm in that place I forget... or think I don't deserve it. If I haven't been outside in a while I'll go for a short walk just to get some air... but I think we've probably covered that for the day. And then I'll try to distract myself. I'll draw, or watch a favorite movie, or bake several dozen cookies..." She flashed a smile, and Lexa felt her own face twitch like it wanted to respond but had forgotten how. "I know it all sounds really basic, but sometimes going through the motions of being a functional human being helps me start to feel like I can be one after all."

It did sound basic, but maybe basic was what she needed. She hadn't showered after they'd come in from shoveling, hadn't changed out of the underlayer she'd been sweating in, that she'd been wearing since sometime yesterday. Maybe there was something to it... and even if there wasn't, it might make Clarke worry a little less, and Lexa could do at least that much, couldn't she? "Okay," she said. "Okay."

She untangled herself from the sheets, wincing every time she moved, and some of it was the imagined pain she just couldn't shake, but some of it was just good old-fashioned sore muscles from two- no, three – days of shoveling snow, and she focused on that. She went to her drawers and pulled out clean underwear and a tank top and warm fuzzy socks and sweatpants, and to her closet for her favorite flannel, bundling it all up and taking it into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and when it was warm, stepped under the spray.

* * *

As soon as the bathroom door closed Clarke got to work. She knew she was taking a chance, doing anything to Lexa's space that she hadn't explicitly approved, but Lexa needed help, whether she knew it or not – and it seemed like she did know it – so Clarke was willing to risk it. She cracked a window to let in some fresh air and found the closet where Lexa kept spare sheets and stripped her bed, quickly making it up again fresh, smoothing the blankets and tucking them in neatly. She closed the window again so it didn't get too cold and gave the pillows one last pat. 

That done, she bundled up and ran across the street, retrieving a lavender candle she'd been given as a gift by she didn't remember who at a work Secret Santa, and some of the food from her refrigerator and freezer that she should have thought to salvage yesterday. Hopefully it was still all right. She took it back to Lexa's and put the candle on the nightstand, lighting it to let the clean, relaxing scent fill the room.

Then it was on to dinner. Pasta again, this time with meatballs that had been frozen and were now thawed, but still cold enough that Clarke thought with cooking they weren't likely to cause food poisoning. Another gamble, but she hoped it would pay off. It took a couple of tries, but she managed to get the stove lit without losing her eyebrows, and by the time Lexa emerged from the bathroom she was already putting the food on plates.

"Looks good," Lexa said, settling onto the couch. She was still moving gingerly, but the lines creasing her face had smoothed out some, and she appeared to have recovered her appetite. "Thank you."

"Normally I would have made garlic bread to go with it," Clarke said. "I make a mean garlic bread."

"Maybe next time," Lexa said, and Clarke's heart did a little flip, because from Lexa, the words didn't just sound like a thing one said to be polite. They sounded like she meant them, like she expected there would _be_ a next time, and not just because Clarke had nowhere else to go.

Or maybe she was reading too much into it. 

When they'd finished eating, Lexa heaved herself up. "You cooked," she said. "I'll clean up." 

"I'll... pick a movie?" Clarke said, but it came out a question, because she didn't want to push Lexa. "My tablet still has enough battery, I think."

"Oh right," Lexa said. "You'll need to charge things. I'll show you which plugs are on the circuit the generator is fueling." She took the dishes into the kitchen. When she came back she had a plate of cookies, and Clarke had queued up Moana.

"I thought we might like to go somewhere tropical for a little while," she said. 

Lexa nodded, doing that thousand-yard stare thing she did sometimes, her mind traveling Clarke didn't know where even as her body remained frozen in place. After a minute she shook her head and sat down again, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch and spreading it over both of their laps, since they had to sit close to be able to see the tablet's small screen. 

The movie played, and Clarke wasn't sure how much of it either of them paid attention to, but Lexa was more relaxed than Clarke had ever seen her, and that was the whole point, wasn't it? When it was over, they disentangled themselves from the blanket and began their bedtime routines – putting more wood in the stove, turning the couch into a bed, plugging in phones and tablets to charge, brushing teeth – and it almost felt normal.

Lexa stopped in her bedroom door, and Clarke held her breath. After a second's hesitation, Lexa stepped in, trailing her fingers over the blankets. "Thank you," she said, glancing at Clarke over her shoulder. "It's been... too long." She paused, then turned to look at Clarke, squaring herself like a soldier steeling herself for battle. "Thanks for dinner and... everything. Today."

"It's the least I can do," Clarke said. When Lexa didn't reply, she added, "If you need anything, you know where to find me." She thought it might get a laugh, or at least a smile, but Lexa's focus had already drifted. "I'll let you rest."

She turned to go, but Lexa's hand clamped around her wrist like a vise. 

"Don't," she said. "Please. Don't go."


	6. Chapter 6

Clarke's eyes flicked down to her wrist where Lexa's fingers squeezed hard enough to dent the skin, and Lexa knew she should let go but no matter how loudly she screamed at her brain to do it, it wouldn't relay the command to her fingers to unclench. In a fight-or-flight moment, it had chosen the third option: freeze. 

She hadn't known she was going to do it until it was already done, hadn't known she was going to say the words until they were already past her lips, which she kept pressed tight together to hold back the flood that was so desperate to escape. 

_Don't go, because that's what everyone does. Everyone goes, everyone leaves, and no one comes back. And it's not their fault. It's mine. It's always mine. But please, just this once... can you be the one who stays?_

Clarke's hand came up to rest over Lexa's, and she waited for her to pry her fingers away, to free herself from the bruising grip, but she didn't. She just let it rest there until Lexa looked up and met her eyes. "Okay," she said. "Let me just go get my pillows."

* * *

_What are you doing?_ , Clarke asked herself as she went to the couch and gathered up the pillows she'd been using, hugging them to her chest. _You barely know her, and now you're just going to crawl into bed with her like it's no big deal?_

But it was just to sleep. Just sharing a bed that was plenty big enough for both of them, acting as a living buffer between Lexa and whatever monsters lurked in the dark corners of her mind, manifesting themselves as a pain that medicine couldn't explain and therefore dismissed. Clarke had seen it happen, especially with women, who were more likely to die because doctors chose not to believe them when they told them something was wrong. And maybe a psychosomatic pain wouldn't kill Lexa directly, but—

But if she'd been a soldier, she might still have a weapon somewhere, and if things got bad enough—

_No one is dying tonight,_ Clarke told herself sharply, cutting off that avenue of thought before she could go too far down it and going back to Lexa's room, where she'd folded back the sheets but hadn't yet gotten in. 

"Should I shut the door?" Clarke asked, even though blocking her path of egress didn't sound like a particularly good idea to the part of her brain that was still shouting warnings about the dangers of sharing space with a potentially volatile stranger. 

Lexa's eyes flicked to the door and her jaw worked, but she finally shook her head. "The heat from the stove doesn't get in here very well with the door shut," she said. She pressed her palm against the sheets like she was grounding herself. "You don't have to do this," she said. "I shouldn't have asked."

"I don't mind," Clarke said. "I'm not very good at being alone anyway."

Lexa looked at her, then looked away. "Neither am I."

* * *

_Forgive me,_ Lexa thought as she settled into bed and felt the weight of another person – of Clarke – dip the other side, and the rush of cool air as she lifted the blankets and crawled under. 

_There's nothing to forgive,_ Costia said. 

_Not yet,_ Anya said. 

_Not ever,_ Costia countered, her voice sharp, and Lexa imagined the cutting look she would have given Anya if she had eyes. 

Anya smirked, or would have smirked if she had lips. _Maybe next movie night you can watch The Little Mermaid,_ she said. _Sha-la-la-la-la-la don't stop now, don't try to hide it how you wanna kiss the girl._

_Shut **up** ,_ Lexa snarled. _I don't want to kiss her. I just want—_

What _did_ she want? 

To not hurt, just for a little while.

To not be alone, if only for a night.

Because that's all it would be, and tomorrow they would get power back – probably – and Clarke would go home and they might wave at each other from their own sides of the street, and maybe Lexa would help her shovel next time it snowed, but Clarke had a life to live and Lexa only had ghosts...

_It doesn't have to be that way,_ Costia said. _You could have more if you let yourself._

Lexa pulled the blankets up around her ears, hunkering down and trying to ignore the warmth that radiated from Clarke's skin, even across the space between them which was as wide as Lexa could make it without making it obvious she was afraid to get too close, in every sense of the word. 

Because once you let someone in, they could hurt you when they left again. And they always left again. 

Clarke was – or would be, once she had another choice – no exception.

_Sha-la-la-la-la-la ain't that sad, it's such a shame, too bad you're gonna miss the girl._

* * *

Clarke had tried to stay on her side of the bed. She really had. But she had a tendency to migrate to the center of any surface she slept on, no matter how large or small or who else was occupying the space with her. So she wasn't surprised when she woke up in the middle of the night with her shoulder dug into Lexa's back, one foot hooked over Lexa's calf. She eased herself away, feeling her cheeks flush with warmth even as the tip of her nose felt like it was starting to turn into an ice cube. Had something gone wrong with the fire? Was it out? Lexa had made sure to stuff several large logs in there, but maybe she'd stacked them wrong and they'd stifled the flames? Was that even possible?

She slipped out from under the covers, shivering as she scuffed her feet around, searching for her – well, Lexa's – slippers in the dark. She made sure to tuck the blankets back around Lexa as she padded into the living room, picking up a poker and reaching for the handle to the stove's door. She winced at the squeal of metal on metal, looking up sharply to make sure the sound hadn't woken Lexa, who'd been sleeping more-or-less peacefully, but she couldn't see through walls. 

A blast of heat hit her face when she tugged it open and peered inside. 

_As if you know what it's supposed to look like,_ she said, rolling her eyes at herself. It hadn't burned out – that much she could tell – but it looked like adding another piece of wood or two wouldn't hurt. So she did, poking them in gingerly and stirring the embers a bit until she saw flames start to lick the edges of the new wood, turning curls of bark to ash. She closed the door again and put the poker carefully back where she thought she'd grabbed it from. 

It was warm out here by the fire, and for a second she was tempted to go get her pillows and return to her place on the couch, but Lexa had asked her to stay...

She went back to the bedroom and climbed into bed as carefully as she could. Lexa stirred and shifted, reaching for her, and Clarke's heart clenched. She wondered who Lexa thought she was, who had occupied this place in her life – in this bed, even, maybe – before, and whether it would be a mistake to let Lexa hold on to whatever dream she was having for a little longer. 

"It's me," Clarke whispered, even as she curled around Lexa, fitting their bodies together and draping her arm over Lexa's waist. "It's Clarke." 

Lexa just sighed, lacing her fingers through Clarke's and pulled Clarke's hand to her chest. Metal brushed against Clarke's knuckles and she remembered the chain, and the tags, and she couldn't do this. She _shouldn't_ do this. But she really was terrible at being alone.

* * *

For a second, a heartbeat, a breath, when she was still caught between dreams and waking, everything was perfect. She was comfortable and warm and the love of her life was—

And then reality came crashing in in a wave of darkness and pain.

Dead. 

The love of her life was dead, and the hand she held to her heart was someone else's, and Costia could say there was nothing to forgive until she was blue in the face – if she had a face – she'd had a face, only a face, only a—

_No!_

It was a cacophony of voices, among them her own, ordering her to stop, to not let herself go there, because if she did, if she let herself fall into that particular black hole of memory, she might never come out. 

She let go of Clarke's hand one finger at a time, and inched herself out of her grasp, replacing her body with a pillow, hoping Clarke's sleeping mind wouldn't notice the difference. The irony of trying to sneak out of her own bed, in her own room, in her own house, without disturbing the near stranger she'd shared it with was not lost on her, but she didn't want to wake Clarke if she could avoid it. She'd earned the right to sleep in if she could, and Lexa needed a minute – an hour, a week – alone. 

She wrapped herself up in a fleece-lined flannel and went to check on the wood stove, which was doing better than usual for this time of the morning, and the poker was on the left side of the stove instead of the right... Had Clarke gotten up and checked the stove while she slept? Had she actually managed to sleep that deeply that she hadn't noticed? 

She arched her back, stretching, and realized that except for the deep ache in her muscles that one would expect after three days of shoveling two driveways, she felt... almost normal. What passed for normal when you'd been through hell and lived – almost – to tell the tale. (But you wouldn't. Ever. It was your burden to carry, your cross to bear, your—)

Her gut twinged, and she curled around it, expecting it to swell and fester and burst... only to realize it was just her stomach clamoring for breakfast. "In a minute," she muttered, and went to the entryway, bundling up against the cold to go check on the generator.

The sky had cleared overnight, and the temperature had plummeted without clouds to keep what little warmth there was in. The landscape glittered, burning Lexa's eyes even with the sun only just cresting the horizon, and she squinted and stomped her way to the garage, trying to keep her blood flowing as the cold nipped at her extremities. 

She filled the generator and checked her reserves, and they would be okay for another two days, maybe three, but not any longer than that. She cringed at the idea of having to go into town, and she had the fleeting thought that maybe she could ask Clarke to get the gas for her to spare her the potential risk of encountering another living being. She was sure Clarke would do it, thinking she owed Lexa for letting her stay... which was why she couldn't ask. She didn't want Clarke to feel obligated to do anything for her. Ever.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a cracking sound, followed by a rush and a thud, and when she looked out she saw a branch had tumbled into her yard, unable to bear its burden of snow and ice any longer. It was pine, so no good for the wood stove, but if she made herself a fire pit for the summer...

_Look at you, making plans for the summer,_ Anya teased. _Are you going to invite Clarke over to warm herself in your fire pit?_

Lexa ignored her. She had to. She couldn't think about Clarke, or the future, or anything beyond breakfast. 

When she got back inside, Clarke was up, one arm halfway into the sleeve of her coat. "I didn't know where you went," she said. "I thought—" She stopped, shook her head. "Are you—"

"—hungry?" Lexa finished, not sure if that's what Clarke was going to ask, but it was what she was willing to answer. "Starved. How do you feel about pancakes?"

* * *

Clarke hung her coat back up and followed Lexa into the kitchen. She looked okay – her face was less drawn than yesterday, no longer creased with pain – and she was moving a lot more easily than Clarke was. She'd almost cried just thinking about needing to go back outside and shovel again. If she never saw another snowflake in her life it would be too soon... but she'd peeked at the forecast and they were already predicting another storm would swirl in the day after Christmas.

Which was when she'd realized it was Christmas Eve, and her eyes had started pricking again as it finally sunk in that she would be spending the holiday alone, far from friends and family and all the traditions that went along with them, and no one – not even Raven, not even her _Mom_ \- had reached out. 

She watched Lexa whisk up batter and ladle it into the frying pan, and she had an idea. "Can you make a really big one?" she asked. "Like the size of the whole pan?"

"It'll be a pain in the ass to flip," Lexa said, "but sure. Why?"

"No reason," Clarke said, fighting back a smile. She grabbed the other pan and put it on the burner, lighting it while a little less trepidation this time, and grabbed bacon from the fridge and eggs from the bowl on the counter, and got to work. "Make two," she said. 

"Yes ma'am," Lexa said, and Clarke looked at her in surprise, because it had almost sounded like she was trying not to laugh. But she was wearing her usual poker face, and maybe Clarke had imagined it. 

Lexa finished the first giant pancake and flipped it onto a plate and moved on to the next while Clarke finished up the eggs and bacon, arranging them carefully. She set the plates on the table while Lexa poured juice, and when Lexa turned around, Clarke presented her creation – a pancake with fried egg eyes and a bacon smile – with a flourish. "It's your breakfast," she said, "and it's happy to see you!"

She'd hoped for a smile, maybe even a laugh. She would have settled for an eye roll. 

She didn't get any of them. 

She didn't get anything at all.

And then Lexa started to shake.

* * *

It was too much. It was all too much, and she couldn't do this. 

She _wanted_ to do this, which was exactly why she couldn't.

Not here, not now, not with this woman who was so much and nothing like Costia.

She felt one of the glasses of juice slip from her hand and waited for the crash and shatter, the cold wetness seeping into her socks, the slice of shards of glass through her skin as she walked over them, heedless, to the sink to clean up the mess, the burn of acid in the wounds... but it didn't come. 

It didn't come because she hadn't dropped the glass; Clarke had taken it and set it safely on the table, and then the other, and then Lexa's arm and she tried to pull away but Clarke didn't let her. "It's okay," she said. "It's okay. Just sit down."

_It's not okay!_ Lexa wanted to scream. _It's hasn't been okay in months. Years. It's not okay, and it will never **be** okay, because they're gone, and the world is meaningless and empty - **I** am meaningless and empty – without them and—_

"Stop," Clarke said, grabbing her hand. "Lexa, stop! You're hurting yourself!" 

_Am I? I don't feel any pain. I don't feel any anything._ But when she looked down she saw she'd wrapped her fingers in her chain, twisting and twisting until the tips were purple and it bit into her neck, but it wasn't sharp enough to cut, to rend flesh and bone and—

Someone was crying. Was it her? But she hadn't cried. She hadn't screamed. She should have screamed. How could she see _that_ and not scream? Others had. They'd screamed, and cried, turned their backs and coughed up every meal they'd ever eaten until they were choking on bile, and she'd—

"Lexa, _please_." 

A hand on her face, fingers cold and shaking, tracing her cheeks and jaw while the other disentangled her from the chain from which dangled the reminders of all the good she'd failed to do. 

She blinked and blinked again until her eyes remembered how to focus on the here and now, and she wasn't crying. Clarke was. Tears streamed down Clarke's cheeks and Lexa didn't think she even noticed them until Lexa reached out and traced the path one of them had taken. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse like she'd been screaming. "Clarke. I'm so sor—"

"Shh," Clarke said. "You don't have to be sorry. Just come back. Wherever you went... just come back to me."

* * *

Clarke held Lexa's hand tightly to keep her from wrapping it in the chain again. She could still see the line on Lexa's neck where it had dug in, and it had seemed almost like she was trying to cut off her air supply with it, but it wasn't strong enough for that, was it? And Lexa didn't actually _want_ to hurt herself... did she? If she did, wouldn't she have done it by now? 

She dragged her gaze away from the streak of red that circled Lexa's throat, catching and holding her eyes instead until she was sure Lexa wasn't going to slip away again into whatever nightmare Clarke's silly surprise had sucked her into. 

"We should eat," Lexa said, her voice raspy in a way that did things in Clarke's belly she couldn't think about right now. "Before it gets cold." 

"Are you going to be okay if I let go?" Clarke asked. "Maybe you should take that—" her eyes dropped to the cluster of tags that now dangled outside of her shirt, "off."

Lexa looked down, following Clarke's gaze, and shook her head. "No," she said. "Never." She looked back up. "I'll be okay."

Clarke let go slowly, ready to catch her hand if it strayed upward, but Lexa kept it pressed to her knee until Clarke was up and in her own seat, then scooted closer to the table and started to eat. Her movements were mechanical, like a button had been pressed for her body to run the 'eat breakfast' program, and Clarke wondered if she tasted any of it. Her own appetite had completely fled, but she made herself eat anyway, nearly missing her mouth with her fork several times because she was busy watching Lexa. 

When they finished, Lexa moved to get up, but Clarke stopped her. "I'll do the dishes," she said. "You cooked."

"You cooked too," Lexa pointed out. 

Clarke pursed her lips, then shrugged. "You can dry." 

"Okay," Lexa said. She got up and grabbed a towel, standing close enough to Clarke that their shoulders brushed and elbows bumped as they worked, and each time they touched it sent a jolt through Clarke. She tried to ignore it, but it was hard, and made harder by the fact that it seemed intentional. If Clarke had learned nothing else about Lexa in the last few days, she was confident in her belief that nothing she did was unintentional... at least when her mind and body were in the same place. Her movements were careful, calculated, no unnecessary energy wasted in getting the task at hand done. Which meant she had chosen to stand this close, chosen to put herself inside Clarke's personal space, and to let Clarke into her own. 

But why? 

Maybe it had nothing to do with Clarke. Maybe she just needed to ground herself in reality and Clarke was the most convenient – or only – available anchor. Maybe...

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe for once in her life Clarke didn't need to overthink something. Maybe she could just accept it and let it be. 

When the last dish was dried and put away, Lexa's hand slid up to her chest, and Clarke reached to stop her. Lexa took half a step back, putting enough distance between them that Clarke couldn't get to her without reaching. "It's okay," she said. "Let me show you."

* * *

Lexa never let anyone see the tags around her neck. If anyone noticed the chain, she assumed they thought it was only her own tags that dangled from them, even though there was no reason for her to continue to wear them. She kept them under her shirt most of the time to avoid questions. 

Why, then, was she offering to show Clarke? Why not just tuck them away and the memory of what had just happened along with them? Why not just let it go?

Because it was too late for that. Clarke had seen them, knew they were there, and if Lexa had learned nothing else about Clarke in the last few days, she was absolutely sure that she wasn't the type of person who just let something – anything – go. Ever. Even if she didn't ask, it would be there in the back of her mind, eating away like bacteria in a festering wound. 

And she'd brought Lexa back before she'd slipped too far, and no one had ever done that before. Which meant Lexa owed her. 

Clarke followed her to the living room, and they sat on the couch, Lexa pressed into one corner and Clarke on the cushion in the middle, not touching her but close enough that she could if she wanted. Lexa tried not to think about it.

"We called ourselves W Company," Lexa said, lifting the tags, the content of which she had long since memorized. Names and social security numbers and blood types etched into the deepest wrinkles of her brain where nothing and no one could reach them to take them away, but she still clung to these tangible reminders that they had existed once, flesh and blood and bone and—

She blinked hard, relaxing the fingers that had clamped down around the tags. She separated them out in a fan so Clarke could see: Waters, Solomon. Walker, Costia. Warren, Anya. Wolfe, Aden. Woods, Alexandria. 

"Sol was first," she said. "His twin sister Luna was my best friend growing up. We enlisted together. I had no choice – it was what you did in my family, what was expected – and they went with me. They both said it was to keep an eye on the other." Lexa let out a soft breath. "I wasn't there when he died. Luna was. I don't know what happened. We didn't talk about it. She gave me one of his tags before accompanying his body home to be buried. She never came back."

"Where did she go?" Clarke asked. 

"I don't know," Lexa said. "No one does."

Clarke's forehead furrowed into a frown. "Why wouldn't she tell you? If you're her best friend." 

"To protect us both," Lexa said. 

At Clarke's blank look, Lexa remembered not everyone had grown up the way she had, and Clarke didn't know how to read between the lines. "She went AWOL. Deserted. If I knew where she was and didn't say anything, I could have been punished too, while I was still enlisted." 

"Oh," Clarke said. "Where do you think she is? Or hope?"

Lexa felt her heart squeeze a little too hard, because it was something she thought about a lot. Where Luna was, if she would ever come back, if she would ever see her again, if Luna ever thought of her... The answer to the last three was probably no, so she clung to the first one, and the hope that as long as she didn't know its answer for sure, Luna was safe. "Some island with no extradition," she told Clarke. "She always said that once we were done for good, she didn't want to see another grain of sand unless it was on a beach somewhere where she could get a drink served in a coconut with one of those little toothpick umbrellas. Preferably by someone who was wearing little more than a charming smile."

Clarke smiled, just a little, and Lexa tried to smile back, but it faltered and failed. She moved to the third tag. "Anya was... she took me under her wing during my first deployment. Showed me the ropes. Showed me how to survive as a female soldier in a place that didn't want us to exist, much less command. Between deployments, she taught me how to cook. She used to tell us stories about meals she'd eaten or that she was going to make for us one day like they were bedtime stories." Another failed smile. "She was a pain in the ass... but she was like a sister to me. After..." She swallowed, sniffed. "She kept me going when I thought there was no way I could." She ran her thumb over Anya's tag. "She was shot in the back by people who were supposed to be our allies." 

She let the tag slip from her fingers, moved on to the next. "Aden was nineteen. He'd known his whole life he would end up in the army like his father, and his father's father, and his father's father's father... all the way back. Just like me. I did for him what Anya did for me, or I tried. But he didn't belong there. He was... good. Too good. He deserved better. He could have been something – someone – great." She swallowed hard, trying to force down the lump in her throat. "He was the little brother I'd never had. I tried... tried to protect him. Tried to keep that spark in him, that goodness, from being smothered, but..." She swiped at her cheek with her free hand as a tear trickled down. "He died in my arms. Our medic was pinned down and couldn't get to us. Not for a long time."

She didn't tell Clarke that she'd sung him to sleep, cradled like the child he was, his blood soaking her uniform. She didn't tell her that she still sang to him sometimes, soft and slow and so, so bitter, the only song she'd been able to think of when she'd realized she was going to lose the last person she'd allowed herself to love. 

"I'm sorry," Clarke said softly. Her eyes skimmed over the names, and Lexa wondered if they were writing themselves into the folds of Clarke's memory, too. If she would close her eyes and see them written there, this litany of the dead. She reached Lexa's tag and her eyes flicked back, narrowing just the tiniest fraction before she looked up. "Who's Costia?"

The name slammed into Lexa's chest, tearing through her like a bullet once had and draining her life just as surely. She should have known she wouldn't get away with skipping over it, but she'd tried anyway. She'd had to try. She sucked in a breath, blinking back the hot sting of tears that rose to her eyes. 

_Costia._

Lexa pinched the tag between her fingers, the letters of her name imprinting themselves into her skin. She forced herself to meet Clarke's eyes. "Costia was my wife."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious about the song that Lexa sang to Aden, it's [Green Fields of France](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0HoE0X0qQs0). The version linked is the Dropkick Murphys version, which isn't the original but it's the one I know. I recommend having tissues nearby.


	7. Chapter 7

"Costia was my wife." 

Clarke blinked, the last word echoing in her head. _Wife._

She hadn't expected that. She didn't know why she hadn't expected that, but she hadn't. Best friend, sure. Maybe even girlfriend, but wife? It didn't make sense... or maybe Clarke just didn't want it to make sense, because it made the reality – Lexa's reality – so much more brutal. 

And also a little bit because of the pricking claws of the green-eyed monster that dug itself into her heart. But she couldn't think about that. Wouldn't think about that. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

"I'm sorry," she said gently, wanting to reach out and touch her but not sure if she should. 

"Me too," Lexa said, letting out a soft, shuddering breath and looking away. She ran her thumb over the name embossed on the tag one last time, then let it fall back against her chest. After a second she tucked it back into her shirt, flinching a little as the metal touched her skin, but her heart would warm it again soon enough. 

Clarke didn't move, just watched Lexa for some indication of what was going to happen next. When she shifted, Clarke thought she might get up and retreat to her room again, but she only drew her knees up, tucking her feet beneath her. She stretched her arm across the back of the couch and rested her cheek on her shoulder, her gaze fixed on something far away. 

"We met on my first deployment," Lexa said. "We weren't in the same unit, but they tried to house all the women together because..." She lifted the shoulder she wasn't leaning on and let it fall. "I don't know why, but we didn't complain. It was nice not having to constantly worry about falling into the toilet in the middle of the night because some jackass left the seat up."

Clarke laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth because it didn't feel right to laugh at a story that she knew didn't end with a happily ever after. 

The corner of Lexa's mouth twitched. "It's okay," she said softly. "You're allowed to laugh." 

_Are you?_ , Clarke wanted to ask. _When was the last time **you** laughed?_ But she just pressed her lips together and nodded, giving her permission to go on. 

"I didn't realize I had feelings for her until she told me I did," Lexa said, and there was a warmth in her eyes Clarke hadn't seen before, a flicker of humor. "She told me she saw the way I looked at her, noticed how I found excuses to be near her, how I was protective of her more than the others even though some of them needed protecting a hell of a lot more than she did. She told me to either knock it off or do something about it. 'Shit or get off the pot,' she said. And I said, 'Shit.'" Her eyes met Clarke's again, and this time Clarke knew she was waiting for a laugh, or at least a smile, and she tried to give her one, but failed.

"It's okay," Lexa said again, forgiving her, Clarke guessed, for not getting this right. "I said it because I hadn't realized I was doing any of those things, but as soon as she pointed it out, I knew it was true. But she took it as a decision, me making my choice, and kissed me, and..." Lexa shrugged again.

"It wasn't easy. She didn't— none of us belonged there, but she really didn't. She was too good. Too caring. Too... human. Or maybe too humane. Which isn't to say she wasn't a good soldier – she was – but it ate away at her. She'd believed the lies they tell you when they recruit you, when you enlist – that you'll be helping people, doing good, making the world a better, safer place. For who, though? That was the question they never answered. The question we never asked. Who were we helping? Whose world were we making better?" Her hand drifted toward her neck, but she let it drop again before it reached the chain. 

"Her parents never supported her. Not joining the army, not being with a woman..." Lexa rolled her eyes. "The time she took me home to meet her parents was the one stretch of leave where I actually wished I could go back to war." Again, Clarke caught a flicker of life in her eyes, of laughter that would never make it to her lips. 

_You don't have to try to make this easier on me,_ Clarke thought. _You don't have to sugarcoat it, or turn it into a joke._ Not that that's what Lexa was doing, exactly... and maybe she wasn't doing it for Clarke at all. Maybe she was doing it for herself, because it was the only way she was going to make it through at all. 

Clarke thought about telling Lexa she didn't have to do this, didn't have to tell her, but again, maybe it wasn't really about Clarke, or for her. Maybe she was telling Clarke because she'd never told anyone else, and maybe it was like debriding a wound to get down to healthy, bleeding flesh so it could finally start to heal. 

"Then one day, out of nowhere, she asked me to marry her. Looking back, I think she'd probably been thinking about it for a long time, but..." She sucked in a breath, let it out slowly. "The thing about Costia was that she believed in fate. She believed in... not omens, but... I don't know. That dreams had meanings. That premonitions were real. And in her head, I guess it was now or never. So we got married. We didn't have a wedding or anything; it was more like signing a contract. But it was legal. It was real." She looked at Clarke, eyes brilliant green and bright with unshed tears. "And then it was over."

* * *

_You don't have to do this,_ Costia whispered. _You don't have to tell her this part._

_But it's how the story goes,_ Lexa told her. 

_I know,_ Costia said. _I was there._

_Until you weren't,_ Lexa said, and wished she could take it back as soon as she said it. Thought it. It was all in her head... but that didn't mean it wasn't real. 

_Until I wasn't,_ Costia agreed. _But you weren't either._

Except those weren't Costia's words. Those were Lexa's words, hurled at herself over and over again, used to reopen wounds no one else could see but that she couldn't allow to heal because she didn't deserve an end to her pain. Not then, not now, not ever. 

Because she hadn't been there. They'd gotten separated on a mission and—

_You know that's not how it went,_ Costia said. _We weren't together on that mission to begin with. You had your assignment and I had mine. You were following orders. We both were._

_A convenient excuse,_ Lexa said. _'I was following orders.'_

_You **were** ,_ Costia said. _Lexa, what happened wasn't your fault! No one blamed you—_

_**I** blame me!_ Lexa snapped. _I blame myself because I wasn't there to protect you, after I vowed that I would! I swore—_

_That was never in our vows,_ Costia said. _We never exchanged vows. Not really._

_It was in the ones I would have said if I'd had the chance,_ Lexa said. _I never got the chance. You never gave me—_

_I know,_ Costia said. _Because I didn't want you to make promises you couldn't keep._

Clarke's fingers were soft and cool against her cheek as she wiped Lexa's tears away, her other hand holding Lexa's pinned against her knee, and she'd probably been reaching for the tags again, to twist them tighter and tighter until the pain brought her back.

"She was captured on a mission three weeks later," Lexa choked. "I wanted to go out and find her, but they wouldn't let me. 'We have to wait for orders,' they said. 'We need to make a plan,' they said. Whatever happened to 'leave no man behind'?" She searched Clarke's eyes, desperate for an answer to the question even though she knew Clarke couldn't give one. 

Clarke bit her lip, turning it white where her teeth dug in, and it looked like it hurt and Lexa wanted to reach to stop her because she held enough pain for both of them, but she was locked into her body, muscles rigid and aching and she didn't want to finish, didn't want Clarke to have to carry this part of the story with her, because some things were impossible to unhear, to unknow, but if she didn't say it, if she didn't let it out, if she never let it go, it would kill her. As surely - _more_ surely – than the bullet that had torn through her and ripped her apart so all that was left of her was a patchwork of pain. 

"It's okay," Clarke said, her hand on the side of Lexa's neck, her thumb tracing her jaw, her face so close, too close, not close enough... "It's okay."

"In the end," Lexa gasped, "we didn't have to. In the end, she came back." She locked eyes with Clarke, sorry, so sorry, and told her. "Her head first, and then the rest of her."

She braced herself for Clarke to pull away, in horror or revulsion, because who wouldn't, hearing something like that? She prepared herself to get up – assuming she could make herself move – and retreat to her room, and remain there as much as possible until the power came back and Clarke could go home, to spare Clarke having to look at her and the blood on her hands that surely was plainly visible to her now. She steeled herself against the inevitable rejection, because no one ever wanted to know the truth about war and what it did to people. No one wanted to hear stories about the heroes they weren't. 

It didn't come. Instead, she found herself in Clarke's arms, her face pressed into Clarke's neck, the angle awkward but she didn't care because she was safe, and it had been _so long_...

Lexa sucked in a breath, and then another, trying to keep her tears in check but there was no holding them back now, and she sobbed like she hadn't ever let herself before, and felt tears soaking into her collar that weren't her own, felt Clarke's back hitch and her chest heave, and Lexa leaned into it, pulling her closer and tighter, clinging until her strength gave out and both their tears subsided.

Lexa lifted her head from Clarke's shoulder, gently extricated herself from Clarke's embrace, putting space between them because she was afraid of what might happen if she let herself feel for too much longer. She pulled the tags back out of her shirt, clenching them in her fist, and she saw the way Clarke's fingers twitched, ready to stop her if she lost it again, but she was calm. At peace, almost. Because she'd finally reached the end.

"She kissed away my nightmares and breathed dreams into my skin," Lexa told her. "Of all the things we would do, the life we would have when our tour was done. When we made it out alive. Not if. When. But then we didn't."

" _You_ did," Clarke said. 

Lexa uncurled her fingers and looked down at the five tags, the last of which was her own, then back at Clarke. "Did I?"

* * *

Clarke stayed on the couch for a long time after Lexa disappeared back into her room, closing the door quietly behind her. She didn't try to follow; Lexa needed her space, and to be honest, Clarke did too. She didn't know how to process what she'd been told. 

_At least now it makes sense why she's so... broken,_ she thought, then hated herself for it. Lexa wasn't broken. She was damaged, yes, with physical and psychic scars that would never fully heal, but she wasn't _broken_. 

And she wasn't dead, no matter what she said. 

She was alive. She'd made it out alive. 

Clarke's gut twisted as a thought struck her again, harder this time, and backed by evidence both statistical and anecdotal. Veterans – especially those with PTSD, and Clarke had not a shred of doubt that Lexa met all the diagnostic criteria and then some – were at a much higher risk for suicide. But Lexa wouldn't... would she? Not while Clarke was here. She wouldn't want to traumatize her, to put Clarke through having to pick up the pieces like she had with her friends. With her _wife_. 

But after? 

Would Clarke come home one day to find an ambulance outside Lexa's house? Would she have to watch a gurney be rolled out with a white sheet pulled all the way up? Or would Lexa go out into the woods, so far away from everyone and everything no one found her, and Clarke was left to always wonder, 'What if...?'

Clarke couldn't let that happen. Which meant convincing Lexa that there was still a place for her in this world. That even with everything – everyone – she'd lost, she wasn't alone, and there was still joy to be found if she just let herself look.

And it was Christmas Eve. What better place – and time – to start?

Clarke went to Lexa's door and knocked gently. When Lexa didn't answer, she pushed it open a crack, relieved to find it wasn't locked. She peered in and found Lexa had gone back to bed, a pillow hugged to her chest. Clarke watched for a few seconds for any sign that the past might have come back to haunt her even in sleep, but her expression was soft and peaceful, making her look young – younger even than she probably was. 

Clarke took a step closer, then another, reaching out to stroke back a stray curl at Lexa's temple. "I'm going to my house to get a few things," she said softly, "but I'll be back. Sweet dreams."

She watched for another moment, then closed the door behind her and went to put on her boots.

* * *

She worked for the rest of the morning, stopping briefly to make a quick sandwich, then continued into the afternoon, making several trips back and forth across the street to gather more supplies. Maybe she went a little overboard, but her father's motto when it came to Christmas was always, 'Go big or go home.' When she'd pointed out that they _were_ home, he'd amended it to, 'Go big _and_ go home,' which hadn't made a lot of sense, but she'd given up on arguing. 

Finally she was done. A glance at her phone told her exactly why her stomach was grumbling, despite the fact that she'd hit the cookie plate more than a few times. She rummaged around in the fridge, careful not to leave it open too long, finding enough ingredients to cobble together something that would at least pass for a holiday meal that didn't require the use of the oven. She was surprised to find she no longer fumbled through the cabinets and drawers; she knew exactly where things were kept now. In a way, this place had started to feel more like home than home did. 

She stuffed the thought down. _Don't get used to this,_ she said. _As soon as the lights come back on, Lexa will want you gone._

Wouldn't she?

Clarke put the food on plates, garnishing them with sprigs of holly she'd cut from a bush out back, and set them on the placemats (actually kitchen towels, but at least they were festive) she'd laid on the table. She lit a few candles and arranged them so they would be able to see their food and went to tell Lexa dinner was ready.

* * *

Lexa closed the box she'd dug out of the back of her closet and shoved it under her bed at the sound of the knock on her door. She'd heard Clarke bustling around the apartment all afternoon, and though she'd considered going out there to see what she was up to, she'd ultimately decided to leave her to it. Let her enjoy the part of the day Lexa hadn't ruined. 

"Dinner's ready," Clarke said. 

"I'm not—" Lexa stopped herself. She _was_ hungry, and she didn't think Clarke would take no for an answer anyway. "Be right there," she said. 

"Okay," Clarke replied, her voice muffled, and Lexa heard her retreating footsteps. 

She got up, her knees aching from sitting cross-legged on the floor for so long, and it took a few steps for them to fully unbend. She put her hand on the knob and took a deep breath before opening it, bracing herself to face the outside world... even if right now that world was just one other person. 

It took a second for Lexa to realize that something looked different. It took another second to realize _everything_ looked different. There were fairy lights strung up everywhere she looked, and candles dotted here and there, adding to the warm glow. There was even a Christmas tree... or something attempting to resemble one that she suspected was the deadfall branch she'd seen come down earlier that morning... decorated with a string of brightly colored paper loops and paper snowflakes, and a few ornaments Lexa assumed Clarke had brought over from her own collection. Because of course she had a collection. 

She made her way to the kitchen, and Clarke was waiting, standing behind Lexa's chair to pull it out for her. She gestured for Lexa to sit, then took the seat beside her. "Dig in," Clarke said. 

"You did all this?" Lexa asked, even though the answer was obvious. 

Clarke nodded, her mouth already full. 

"Why?" Lexa asked. 

Clarke swallowed. "Because it's Christmas Eve," she said. 

"Is it?" Lexa poked her fork into the pile of mashed potatoes. "I guess I lost track."

"My father loved Christmas," Clarke said. "I had all these big plans to decorate my place, but I never got around to it, and I didn't want it to go to waste." She shrugged. "If you hate it, you can take it down."

"I don't," Lexa said. "I don't hate it at all." 

Which wasn't to say it didn't hurt. It did, because it reminded her of the makeshift Christmases they'd cobbled together while deployed, hoping for care packages from home that rarely came, or arrived damaged or too late, or from organizations that put together packages for Any Soldier, but who so often forgot there were women among them. They could still enjoy the candy and other treats, but if they decided to include useful items like socks, they never fit, and often any magazines or other sources of entertainment were oriented toward civilian's assumptions of what a soldier would enjoy. 

They read them anyway, just because it was something new and different, but there had been one Christmas when Costia had decided their barracks were too bleak and had turned some of the old magazines into strings of stars. 

"After dinner," Lexa said, "there's something I want to show you."

* * *

They washed the dishes side-by-side, Lexa washing and Clarke drying because she'd insisted, and then went to the living room. Lexa fished out some ancient magazines from under the coffee table and sat cross-legged on the floor. She opened to a page that was full of pictures and tore it out, folding it into strips and tearing carefully, then slid one over to Clarke. She began to fold, slowly and carefully, and Clarke followed her motions. In the end, she pinched the folded paper into a star shape. "With enough of them you can make a garland," she said. She folded another, then another, then tore another page out of the magazine. 

"Where'd you learn to do this?" Clarke asked. "Is it origami?"

"Maybe," Lexa said. "I don't know." She shaped another star. "Costia showed me. Showed all of us." 

"Oh," Clarke said. "Lexa, I'm so sorry. That you lost her. That you lost all of them. It's not—"

"I know," Lexa said. "I'm sorry, too." She bit her lip, then pushed herself up. "Let me show you something else." She went to her room and came back with a box, which she set on the floor and slowly lifted the lid. Carefully, she pulled a scrapbook from it. "I told you how they died... but they're more than that. They were all so much more than that. Let me show you how they lived."

Clarke sat next to her on the couch, and Lexa spread the book across both their laps, slowly turning the pages that had been lovingly put together – by Costia again, who had created page after page while they were on leave, as if her life depended on it, Lexa said, and maybe it did in a way, because now it was all that remained of her outside of Lexa's memory. 

Lexa showed Clarke their faces, told her their stories, brought them to life so vividly Clarke found herself with tears streaming down her cheeks when she realized she would never get to meet any of them, except maybe Luna, if she was still out there. If she ever decided she wanted to be found. 

When they got to the last page, Lexa moved on to the other objects in the box, some of which had belonged to her friends, some of which had been from better, happier times in her own life. At the bottom there was a small box that looked like the kind fancy jewelry came in. Lexa lifted it out and opened the lid with shaking hands 

Inside was a medal, a purple heart. 

"I've never worn it," Lexa said. "It felt like an insult. 'You've lost everything except your life, so here's a medal.' As if that would magically heal me. As if anything could." She traced her finger over the medal's edge. "I wished for a long time they'd just let me die. When I coded on the table they'd just let me go." 

"And now?" Clarke asked. 

"Depends on the day," Lexa admitted. "But if I'd died, who would have shoveled your driveway?"

* * *

When it came time for bed, they didn't talk about where Clarke was going to sleep. She just slid into bed beside Lexa, and Lexa let her. 

In the morning, she woke up to find Clarke pressed up against her and the clock beside her bed flashing 12:00 12:00 12:00. The power was back on. Which meant Clarke could go home. Would go home. Unless...

"A Christmas miracle," Clarke murmured, peering over Lexa's shoulder. 

"Don't go," Lexa said. "Stay."

Clarke looked at her, an unspoken question in her eyes. 

Lexa looked back, hoping Clarke would understand everything she wasn't saying when she answered, "It's Christmas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that I'll be taking a hiatus from posting for the month of April so I can get more writing done. See you all again in May!


	8. Chapter 8

"It's Christmas." 

Clarke felt her lips curving into a smile. It was Christmas. Her first Christmas away from her family and friends, and she'd been bracing herself to spend it alone, watching Hallmark channel movies and drinking too much eggnog and waiting for phone calls that maybe never came, but now the day had arrived and she'd gotten a better offer. 

"I didn't get you anything," Clarke said. 

Lexa looked at her, her lips slightly parted, and Clarke tried not to stare as Lexa's eyes widened and she shook her head. "You've given me everything," she said. "Clarke..."

For a second, Clarke thought Lexa might kiss her. For second, she thought she might kiss Lexa. But then she remembered the day before, the stories Lexa had told, the fact that not so long ago (though she didn't know how long because Lexa had never said) Lexa had had a wife, who she was clearly still grieving, and the moment passed. 

"I should check the fire," Lexa said, turning away and pushing back the covers. The chill of the room hit Clarke harder for the sudden absence of Lexa's warmth, and she drew her limbs in tighter before forcing herself to poke her feet out from under the blankets, immediately seeking the slippers she'd left beside the bed the night before. Lexa's slippers. 

"I'll make breakfast," Clarke said. "Unless—"

Lexa looked back at her from the door. "Unless?"

"Unless you want to?" Clarke finished but that wasn't what she'd really been thinking. _Unless that would be overstepping,_ she thought. _Unless you've changed your mind._

But maybe Lexa hadn't even felt it. Maybe Clarke had been alone in the moment she'd thought she felt happening. Maybe...

"We can do it together," Lexa said. "But I don't mind if you get it started." 

Clarke nodded and forced a smile. She wrapped herself in a flannel... which she realized was also Lexa's, though she didn't remember borrowing it. Maybe she'd mistakenly grabbed it one of the times they'd come in from the snow and Lexa hadn't said anything. Maybe she hadn't even noticed; she'd been pretty distracted a lot of the time. 

Clarke opened the refrigerator and rifled in the back where she'd shoved the can of ready-to-bake cinnamon rolls. They weren't as good as homemade, and if she'd had time to prepare she might have attempted her father's grandmother's recipe, but the dough had to rest overnight so it was too late. 

_Maybe next year,_ she thought as she peeled away the paper and pressed a spoon into the seam, jumping when the pressure released and the dough came popping out even though she'd known it would happen.   
She put the rolls in a pan and got out bacon and eggs to get started while she waited for the oven to preheat. 

Clarke felt more than heard Lexa join her in the kitchen, like her body had developed a sort of sixth sense for when she was nearby, and she glanced over her shoulder and smiled as Lexa went to the sink to wash dirt and bits of bark from her hands. 

"It's too bad we don’t have any leftover boiled potatoes," Lexa said. "I make a mean home fry." She didn't quite smile, but there was warmth in her eyes that made Clarke's heart swell and her belly do a little flip, and she had to ignore the latter, but...

"There's leftover mashed potatoes," she said. "I know it's not the same, but—"

Lexa considered. "I might be able to work with that," she said, and pulled the container from the fridge, getting to work. 

They fell into a rhythm, moving around each other like this was something they did every day and had for a long time. It felt natural, and Clarke shoved down the thought that this was going to end eventually, maybe – probably – tonight, because she didn't want to let her fears of the future ruin the present. 

_Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift – that's why it's called the present._

It was something her father had said when she was younger any time she started spiraling about the 'what if's and 'if only's she had no control over. She knew he'd probably gotten it from a cheezy card or maybe some inspirational wall art somewhere, but it had stuck with her nonetheless.

_Today is a gift,_ she thought, and clung to it.

* * *

_Merry Christmas, love,_ Lexa thought as she chopped onions to add to her mashed potato home fries, which she wasn't sure was actually a thing, but she was good at working with what she had. 

_If you light a candle you won't cry,_ Anya reminded her. _Something about the flame burning off the gas that makes your eyes sting._

_Maybe I want to cry,_ Lexa retorted, putting a little extra force behind the knife as she brought it down.

_Easy,_ Costia said. _You don't want to spend Christmas in the ER having a finger reattached._

_Not when you could spend it fingering—_

_Shut up, Anya!_ Costia and Lexa snapped in unison, which only made Anya laugh because it sure as hell wasn't the first time they'd done it, and it almost certainly wouldn't be the last. 

_I wish it was you here,_ Lexa told her wife... ex-wife? What did you call someone who you'd been married to but weren't anymore, not because you'd divorced them but because they were no longer there... except in your head. 

_Just because it's in your head doesn't mean it's not real._

Except...

_We never got a chance..._ Lexa was glad she could blame the onions for the tears that blurred her vision and slowly trickled down her cheeks. _This should have been us, and we never got a chance!_

_I know, love,_ Costia whispered, and Lexa swore she could feel her beside her, her hand resting on her back, her chin on Lexa's shoulder as she leaned in, her hand on Lexa's—

Lexa blinked, and blinked again, bringing Clarke's face into focus. She'd half-wedged herself between Lexa and the counter, one hand stilling the knife, the other in the vicinity of Lexa's hip.

"Hey," Clarke said. "I think they're chopped enough." 

Lexa let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh, and set the knife down carefully. "Right," she said. "You're right."

"I usually am," Clarke said, grinning, and for the second time that morning Lexa realized how close she was and how easy it would be to just—

_Sha la la la la la..._

She took half a step back, and Clarke slid back to her place at the stove like nothing had happened. Maybe nothing _had_ happened. Maybe it was all in Lexa's head and—

_Just because it's in your head doesn't mean it's not real..._

... was turning out to be a real double-edged sword. Lexa took a few slow, deep breaths to steady herself before joining Clarke at the stove to finish breakfast.

* * *

They took their plates into the living room where it was warmer. Even with the power back on, it seemed the wood stove was Lexa's main source of heat. They settled onto the couch, and Clarke tucked a blanket over her legs and instinctively reached for the remote to turn on the TV... only to realize that there was neither. 

Maybe she shouldn't have been surprised; she already knew how disconnected Lexa was from the outside world. But she couldn't help feeling a pang at not being able to put on Christmas movies for background noise. When she was younger, she used to snuggle up with her father and laugh at how ridiculous some – most – of them were. Later, she and her friends had created a Hallmark Christmas movie drinking game, although they'd learned after the first year not to start playing until after they'd had their holiday meal (in whatever form it took) if they wanted to avoid massive hangovers before the day was even over. 

"Clarke?" 

Her head snapped up and she pasted on a smile. "Sorry," she said, the response reflexive at this point because there was always something to be sorry for, wasn't there? Always something she'd done wrong. 

Lexa's mouth tipped down. "Why?" she asked. 

"I got lost for a second there," Clarke said. "I didn't mean to."

Lexa's eyebrows went up and she made a sound that was almost a laugh. "You think you need to apologize to _me_ about that?" She shook her head. "You don't." She hesitated, then added, "But if you want to talk about it, I'll listen."

Clarke started to shake her head, then stopped. Her problems weren't the same as Lexa's, and maybe in the grand scheme of things they were petty in comparison, but that didn't mean they weren't real. It didn't mean they didn't hurt her just the same. And Lexa had shared so much, had let her in so much farther than she'd ever expected...

But Lexa had woken up in a good mood, and Clarke didn't want to ruin it. She wanted her to have a good day, a good memory to hold on to when all the bad ones came crowding in. A light against the darkness. 

"Breakfast is getting cold," she said. "We should eat."

Lexa's brow furrowed and her lips pursed, but she didn't say anything. She dug her fork into her eggs and began to eat, and Clarke did too, letting the flavors melt across her tongue. It turned out mashed potato home fries – or whatever one decided to call them – were pretty good, and she hummed her appreciation. She could feel Lexa's eyes on her, not the whole time, but enough that she knew she'd already put a damper on the tiny spark of life she'd managed to rekindle in her.

"Just thinking about my family," she said finally, "and my friends... and how they're probably not thinking about me." She pressed her lips together, glancing up from her plate and the last few bites of food that remained. "It doesn't matter."

"It does," Lexa said. "Of course it does." She set her own plate aside and shifted closer to Clarke, close enough to touch her... and then she _did_ touch her, and it was like Clarke imagined touching a live wire would be. A jolt like a static spark, but it didn't stop. It tingled through her from the place where Lexa's hand rested on her knee, setting her nerves alight. "Why do you think they're not thinking about you?"

"Because no one's contacted me," Clarke said. "I know it's still early, but..." She shrugged. "I don't know. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. They all still have each other. I'm the one who left."

Lexa's jaw worked like she was chewing on possible answers, or maybe biting back what she really wanted to say. She gently extricated Clarke's plate and fork from her white-knuckled grip and wrapped her fingers around Clarke's hands, and Clarke hadn't realized how chilly her skin had become until they were pressed between the warmth of Lexa's palms. "I'm glad you're here," she said, her eyes boring into Clarke's with a laser focus that was intimidating and entrancing in roughly equal measure. "Clarke. I'm so glad you're here." 

Clarke swallowed, her tongue darting out to wet lips gone suddenly dry. "Me too."

* * *

They washed the breakfast dishes side by side, then returned to the couch, but Clarke was restless and Lexa wondered if she was itching to be gone, now that she could go home again. Lexa already dreaded the moment when she would be left alone with only her ghosts for company, but she knew it was coming. Maybe it was worse, delaying the inevitable. Better to just rip off the Band-Aid.

"Do you want to come to my place for a little while?" Clarke blurted. "It's just... you don't have a TV and we – my dad and I, then my friends and I when I wasn't working – used to watch Christmas movies and—"

"Oh," Lexa said.

"Or actually..." Clarke frowned, then rolled her eyes. "I can stream them," she said. "I don't have cable, I have a streaming service. I – we can just watch them on my tablet. If you want to."

"Oh," Lexa said again, still struggling to wrap her head around the idea that _she_ wasn't the problem. "Okay." 

Clarke looked at her, lines forming between her brows as she started to frown. "Are you sure? You don't have to if—"

"I want to," Lexa said. _I want whatever you want if it means you'll stay. I need you to stay._

_Sha la la la la--_

_Shut **up** , Anya!_ Lexa snapped, only she wasn't sure it was even Anya anymore... and the truth was maybe it never had been. 

Except of course it never had been, because Anya was dead and anything she said, any presence she had in Lexa's head and in her life, was just Lexa's mind playing tricks on her, her subconscious taking on the voice of someone she might listen to... or fight against, or...

Clarke came back with her tablet, settling back on the couch closer than before so they could both see the screen, and Lexa tried not to think about the places their bodies pressed together, the way heat radiated from Clarke and lit something in Lexa that warmed her from the inside out. And when Clarke's hand brushed against hers under the blanket draped over both of them and their fingers laced together seemingly of their own volition, she tried not to let guilt eat her alive.

* * *

The movies were, objectively speaking, pretty terrible. It was the same trite plot over and over again, with girl meeting boy and falling in love in all sorts of improbable circumstances, and Clarke had always known they were ridiculous, but this was the first time she'd found herself really thinking about the lack of diversity. And then in one of the movies the man was a former soldier, and Clarke's heart tripped over itself and stumbled into a sprint, worried that it might trigger something in Lexa, but her face betrayed nothing, and Clarke wondered how much she was even taking in. This had been Clarke's idea, after all, and she'd agreed to go along with it, but she might be a million miles away behind that mask...

Clarke was glad when it ended... but after a brief commercial break it just launched straight into the next one: a widow and her young daughter who find a magic stocking at a Christmas flea market, and the woman has to heal from her grief over the loss of her husband to fall in love with the carpenter who saves Christmas... or something like that. She'd seen it before and never thought about it, but now she found herself cringing. 

Had Lexa and Costia talked about having kids? Had that been one of their plans for the happily-ever-after they'd never gotten? Had Lexa always planned to move somewhere like this, or had she come here just to get away from everything and everyone that reminded her of the life she'd meant to have – to share – and now never would? 

Her spiraling thoughts were cut off by the buzzing of her phone, and for a second she just stared at it like she didn't know what it was or what she was supposed to do with it. Lexa finally nudged her, looking pointedly at the screen lit up with a single word: Mom. "Do you want me to pause?" she asked, nodding toward the movie.

"No," Clarke said. "It's fine. I've seen it before." She picked up her phone and slid her finger across the screen, working to untangle herself from the blanket as she brought the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hi, sweetie," her mom said, and it was like that first bite of a cookie fresh out of the oven, filling her with warmth that radiated from her chest outward. "Merry Christmas." 

"Merry Christmas," Clarke echoed, realizing she had nowhere to go and finally ducking into the bathroom and closing the door. She hoped Lexa didn't think Clarke was trying to hide from her... even though she sort of was, though she wasn't sure why. She wasn't going to say anything she didn't want Lexa to hear... was she? 

"How are you?" her mom asked. "Did you make it home?"

Clarke blinked. How had her mom known she wasn't— Then she realized she meant home as in where she'd grown up, not home as in the house across the street. "No," she said. "Classes only ended a couple of days ago, and plane tickets aren't cheap, and—"

"I would have sent you the money," her mom said. "You only had to ask."

"I know, Mom," Clarke sighed. "But you're not there, and—"

"What about your friends?" she asked. "Raven and—"

"I'm spending Christmas with a friend here," Clarke interrupted. 

"Oh!" Her mother sounded surprised, like she hadn't considered the fact that Clarke might have made new friends, and Clarke tried not to let it get under her skin. "That's wonderful. I hope you're having a good time."

"We had a snowstorm," Clarke said. "It knocked out power for a few days, so I've been staying with her. Lexa. It's nice. It's been really nice." Which was both true and not true, but her mother didn't need to hear about the not-so-great, sometimes downright terrifying parts. Clarke didn't need – or want – her concern. 

"I'm glad to hear it," her mom said. "Things here have been chaotic, as they usually are, but we're having a special holiday meal, so at least that's something." 

"I made us Christmas Eve dinner," Clarke said. "And we made breakfast together this morning."

There was a pause, and then, "Oh!" It was only then that Clarke realized how it sounded, and she opened her mouth to correct her mother before she could leap to the wrong conclusion... then closed it again, because so what if she did. "That's wonderful," her mom said, her voice softening. "I'm happy for you." 

"Thanks," Clarke said, a pang of guilt jabbing at her conscience, because it _wasn't_ like that, and probably never would be, because life wasn't a Hallmark Christmas movie and Lexa was still grieving her wife and maybe always would be, and the fact that she'd been holding Clarke's hand for the better part of an entire movie before Clarke's phone rang didn't mean anything but that she – they both – needed a little human connection. Her phone beeped, signaling she had another call coming in, and she was more than glad for the excuse to end the conversation. "I have to go," she said. "Someone else is calling. Merry Christmas, Mom."

"Merry Christmas, Clarke. I love you." 

"Love you too." Clarke switched over to the other call before it could go to voicemail, answering with a breathless, and maybe slightly panicked, "Hello?"

The first thing she heard was Raven snickering. "Did I interrupt something?" she asked. 

Clarke rolled her eyes. "No," she said. "I was just talking to my mom."

"That's what they all say," Raven said, and Clarke could hear her grinning. "Just wanted to call and say Merry Christmas and all that. Didn't want you to think I'd forgotten you."

"Merry Christmas," Clarke said, her voice slightly strangled because she _had_ been starting to think that, and it was such a relief to know it wasn't the case. "Do you have any plans?"

"A bunch of us are getting together to watch those stupid Christmas movies you love so much and get wasted," Raven said. "You want me to call when I'm there? You can join the fun." 

"I can't," Clarke said. "I mean... yes, you can call. I'd like to say hello to everyone. But I'm still at Lexa's, and—"

"You _still_ don't have power?" Raven asked. "Ugh, that sucks. If I was there, I would have—"

"Probably caught the house on fire," Clarke teased. "And I do. It came back sometime last night. I just... she asked me to stay, and I didn't want to spend the day alone, so..." Clarke shrugged. "We've been watching too, although I think we may have find something else because I'm starting to wonder if I might be violating Lexa's eighth amendment rights." 

"Hence the getting wasted," Raven laughed. "So she's still keeping you warm? Is there _only one bed_?" 

Clarke could hear the sly smirk in her voice and found herself squirming. "It's not like that," she said, not sure why she was denying to Raven what she'd been happy to let her mother believe. She sure as hell wasn't going to admit that yes, there was only one bed, and they'd shared it for the past two nights, and might—

She didn't let herself think it. What happened tonight wasn't her decision to make, and she wasn't going to get her hopes up. She shouldn't be letting herself hope at all. 

"Yet," Raven said, like she could hear Clarke's thoughts. "Anyway, I should go. I have an ugly sweater to finish – we're having a contest, and you know failure is not an option. I'll FaceTime you later so you can be an objective judge... just remember that mine is the best. Because I am always the best."

Clarke snorted a laugh. "Obviously," she said. "Talk to you later." 

Raven hung up, and Clarke went back to the living room, where Lexa was just settling back on the couch with two mugs of cocoa heaped with whipped cream and a plate of cookies. "I got bored waiting," she said. "And I know you said not to pause it, but..." Lexa shrugged. 

"These movies are so much worse than I remember," Clarke admitted. "And I have a better idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd we're back! (And by 'we' I mean 'I', although I hope you're all back too... but I guess if you're reading this you must be, huh? 😉) Anyway, please enjoy the return our regularly scheduled programming for the next two months - I'll be taking another hiatus in July for the second Camp NaNo session.


	9. Chapter 9

"Don't you want to know if the guy gets the girl?" Lexa teased. 

"He does," Clarke said. "I've seen this one already. I've seen them _all_ already." She rolled her eyes, and Lexa couldn't help smiling. 

"Okay," she said, not quite managing to disguise her relief at not being forced to see another (hetero) couple get their happily-ever-after. (Although if she was being honest, the fact that it was always a man and a woman made it a little easier to stomach; she wasn't sure she could handle watching two women defy the odds and get the chance she would never have.)

_With me,_ Costia said. _The chance you'll never have with me, but that doesn't mean you'll never have it at all. Open your eyes, Lexa, and see what's right—_

For the first time ever, Lexa pushed the voice away, silencing her rather than clinging to the memory that with every passing day she feared was less and less accurate. Aside from the words - would Costia really say that or was it Lexa's own wishful thinking? - had her voice really sounded like that? Or had time eroded her mental recordings, leaving her with a copy of a copy of a copy of what she had truly sounded like and who she'd really been? 

She had videos somewhere, on a phone she'd long since lost the charger for, maybe saved to a cloud she couldn't remember the password to, but she'd made no effort to retrieve them, because as long as she didn't know for sure, she couldn't hate herself for forgetting.

Lexa picked up her mug of cocoa and took a slow, careful sip, letting the warmth seep through the ceramic and into fingers that had instantly chilled the moment Clarke let go of them. The almost too-sweet taste flooded her mouth, and she could feel it trickling down her esophagus and into her belly, melting the ice crust around her heart on its way past. 

"What are we doing?" she asked. "What's your better idea?"

Clarke held up a finger, chewing the massive bite of cookie she'd taken quickly and swallowing with a gulp. "Ugly sweaters," she said. "My friends are having a contest when they get together today, and Raven is going to FaceTime me so I can say hi to everyone. I thought we could surprise them." She grinned, and there was something so hopeful in her eyes Lexa couldn't say no even if she wanted to because she refused to be the one to snuff out that light.

"I don't think I have any ugly Christmas sweaters," Lexa said, "so you'll have to help me out."

"Don't worry," Clarke said. "I've got you. But we'll have to go over to my place for supplies."

Lexa nodded. "Just a sec," she said. She picked up the mugs and took them back to the kitchen, dumping the contents into thermoses – whipped cream and all – and handed one to Clarke. "Have cocoa, will travel," she said. "Let's go."

Clarke grinned again, and Lexa could have basked in that warmth for a long time, but Clarke was already up and moving, bundling herself up to face the outdoors. Lexa followed a little more slowly, not because she was stiff or sore (although she was a little of both) but because she was enjoying watching Clarke's gleeful preparations. When they were both as ready as they were going to be, Clarke tugged open the door... and stumbled back half a step at the blast of cold that smacked into them. "Shit," she muttered, pulling her scarf up higher over her nose and cheeks. 

Lexa followed her, a little more used to the cold, but it had a damp bite to it that wormed its way around and through every garment, finding every injury she'd ever had and digging in. "Another storm coming," she said quietly. 

Clarke turned to look at her, fumbling in her pocket for her keys, and let them into her house. When she flipped the switch the lights came on, and they spent the first few minutes (after removing several layers and heaping them on the backs of kitchen chairs because Clarke didn't have a coat rack and the hall closet was stuffed with plastic totes of varying colors) going around and resetting clocks. Once they'd reasserted their control over the space-time continuum (at least in this house) Clarke went back to the closet and began pulling out bins, opening one after another and peering at their contents. A few she closed again, but several were set aside for closer inspection. 

"Be right back," she said, disappearing into another room and coming back with several old sweaters that looked a little worse for the wear... and far too big for Clarke. "They were my father's," she explained. "I took them after he died."

Lexa frowned. "Are you sure you want to—" _Ruin them?_ She couldn't imagine taking anything of Costia's and turning it into a joke. 

Clarke nodded. "I still have a few that are nicer," she said. "And it's not like I can really wear them. Anyway, he would love it. He would already be shit-talking about how much better his was going to be." 

"Okay," Lexa said. "Are we going to work here, or...?"

Clarke's head tipped, considering. "Your place is warmer," she said, "but mine is already infected with glitter..."

"I don't mind," Lexa said. 

"Are you sure?" Clarke asked. "Glitter is the herpes of the craft world. Once you've got it, it never really goes away." 

Lexa choked on a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob that rose up out of nowhere. "You sound like Anya," she said. "That is something she would have said. Something she _did_ say... only I think it was Easter grass."

Clarke groaned. "That too," she said. "I shared an apartment with a few friends when I was in med school, and we never brought Easter grass into it, but somehow we still found it when we moved out." 

"I'm not afraid of a little sparkle," Lexa said. And she wasn't. She was _a lot_ afraid. 

And she was doing it anyway.

* * *

They – mostly Clarke – gathered the supplies she thought they might want and transferred them into one of the plastic tubs, then made their way back to Lexa's apartment. Clarke had also filled a big Ziploc to replenish the cookie plate, and they sipped cocoa from thermoses and munched on cookies while she spread out the felt and tinsel and glitter and various other odds and ends so they could get to work.

Clarke had put on a Christmas playlist on Spotify to have as background music, but she was so absorbed in what she was doing that it took half a song for her to realize that the voice she was hearing singing wasn't the one on the radio. Her eyes flicked to Lexa, and sure enough her lips were moving, her voice soft but the notes clear and sweet, and damn it, on top of being strong and brave and beautiful and prepared for everything, she had to be an amazing singer, too? Not that Clarke was a slouch, musically – she had some skill playing the guitar and could sing passably well, she thought, but...

The song ended and Lexa looked up, her cheeks flushing pink when she realized Clarke had been staring. "That was Costia's favorite," she said with a slight shrug. 

"Did you ever sing for her?" Clarke asked. 

"All the time," Lexa said. "Real songs, made-up songs... any time she started to get down, I would try to cheer her up by singing."

"Did it work?" Clarke asked.

"Usually," Lexa said. "Nothing ever kept her down for long. Until—" She swallowed, shook her head. "Tell me about your friends," she said. "Do you think we can win?"

"Obviously," Clarke said. She grabbed a glitter pen and began to outline ornaments on the Christmas tree that spanned from hem to shoulder on the sweater she only vaguely remembered her father wearing, though from how close the elbows were to transparent, he must have done so frequently. She searched her memory for stories she could tell Lexa that weren't potential landmines, but finally gave up because it was impossible to know all of Lexa's triggers and just started to talk, bringing her friends to life in the best light possible, even thought it was hard with some of them to remember that there had been good times before everything went to hell.

Lexa listened, smiling and laughing – or at least exhaling – at the points where others would have been rolling on the floor. Occasionally she interjected an anecdote of her own, but mostly she let Clarke talk, until they were interrupted by their growling bellies, despite the dent they'd made in the cookies. 

"You keep working," Lexa said, because it seemed she was close to finished and Clarke was nowhere near. She _might_ have bitten off more than she could chew, trying to add in every possible ugly sweater detail she could think of. She thought she felt Lexa's fingers brush her shoulder as she passed, but the touch was gone before Clarke could be sure. 

Lexa came back a few minutes later with sandwiches, and Clarke chowed down. She was pretty sure she ingested some glitter along with her ham and cheese, but it wasn't the first time and wouldn't be the last. It all came out in the end. 

Finally, her sweater was done, and she held it up. Lexa took one look at it and started to smile, and then to laugh – really laugh, hard enough that she clutched her stomach. For a second Clarke froze up, thinking she was in pain again, but Lexa shook her head, managing to suck in enough for a breath to wheeze, "I'm okay. It's just... so much. _So_ much."

"Too much?" Clarke asked, fighting back a smile but also a tiny pang of fear that she'd gone over the top. 

"Never," Lexa said. "No such thing." This time there was no mistaking it when she touched Clarke, her fingers strong and sure as they squeezed her arm. "It's amazing, and if you don't win your friends are idiots."

"Frequently," Clarke said, then clamped her mouth shut. It had been a joke... except also not a joke. She'd lost track of the number of times she'd had to bail one or another of them out of a sticky situation, taking the blame so frequently that she'd begun to internalize and believe that it really was her fault. That even if she hadn't created the situation, she could and should have found a way to stop it. 

"Hey," Lexa said, her hand slipping up to Clarke's elbow, gripping her upper arm a little more tightly. "Clarke." 

Clarke blinked, looked at her, forced a smile. "Sorry, I—"

"Nothing to be sorry for," Lexa said. Her blue spruce eyes didn't waver from Clarke's, and Clarke buckled under the intensity of her gaze, looking down and away. Lexa's touch lingered on her sleeve for a moment longer, then she leaned over and grabbed Clarke's phone, tapping until the song changed and she stood up. "Come on," she said, holding out a hand. 

"What are we doing?" Clarke asked. 

Lexa rolled her eyes, landing pointedly on Clarke's phone and the song blasting tinnily from its speakers. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked. "We're Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree. Branch. Whatever. Come on!" She grabbed Clarke's hands and pulled her up, and Clarke had been sitting for so long her legs had fallen asleep and she nearly toppled into Lexa's chest. 

Lexa just laughed and righted her, keeping hold of her hands and dancing her weight from foot to foot until Clarke started dancing with her, and if either of them had any moves they certainly weren't demonstrating them now – almost exactly the opposite. Like the ugly sweaters, it became an impromptu competition to see who could make themselves look more ridiculous, until the song ended and they collapsed against each other in a tight embrace, sucking in breath between fits of giggles. 

The next song was slower, and Clarke wasn't sure which of them started it but soon they were swaying like a high school slow dance (or really an any time, any age slow dance), and she let her cheek rest on the soft flannel of Lexa's shoulder, breathing in the woodsmoke snow cinnamon smell of her. Lexa's fingers slid into Clarke's hair, pushing it back from her face, and she looked up—

And the song cut off abruptly as Clarke's phone rang, shattering the moment and tearing them apart like they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't. Heart pounding and fingers shaking, she fumbled to answer it.

Raven's face popped up on her screen, her cheeks flushed with heat or alcohol or both. "Merrrrrrry Christmas!" she said, too loud and too close to the screen. She extended her arm a little, and Clarke could see past her to the people gathered in the background, talking and laughing and stuffing their faces and drinking, and she felt a pang at not being there. "Hey everyone!" Raven called. "Everyone, hey! Shut up! I've got Clarke on the phone!

"Merry Christmas, everyone!" Clarke said, raising her voice so they could hear her over the TV that flickered with one of the movies they'd given up on. Lexa flinched, and Clarke grimaced and mouthed, 'Sorry,' resolving to keep her voice at a more reasonable volume even if it meant people couldn't hear her. 

"Oh, is she there?" Raven asked. "Lexa, are you there?" 

Lexa leaned closer, and Clarke shifted the focus of the camera so they were both in the shot. "I'm here," she said. "You must be Raven." 

"The one and only," Raven said. "Everything Clarke has said about me is a lie, except that I'm a genius. That part is definitely true." She winked and grinned and took a swig of her beer. "Thanks for taking care of Clarke for us," she added. "I'm glad you didn't let her turn into a Clarkesicle." 

Clarke shot Lexa a warning look, hoping she would understand and be careful about what she said and how she said it. Lexa's eyes flicked to her, a question in them Clarke couldn't answer, before focusing back on the screen. She pasted on a smile. "Just being neighborly," Lexa said. 

Raven snorted. "That's what _she_ said." She waggled her eyebrows, and Clarke suppressed a sigh. There was no way this was going to end well.

"Did you say something about an ugly sweater contest?" Clarke asked. 

"Oh yeah!" Raven said. "Yeah, let's do that! Hey everyone, let's do the contest! Clarke can be the judge."

"Actually," Clarke said, "we decided to enter, too."

Raven cocked her head, like she couldn't make the words make sense. She could do advanced mathematical calculations in seconds without so much as a piece of paper and a pencil, but the idea that Clarke might want to be part of something her friends were doing, even from far away, didn't compute. "Oh," she said finally. "Okay, sure! We'll just have everyone vote and decide the winner that way." 

Raven went around the room, introducing everyone and letting them show off their ugly sweaters. Many of them were store bought (and predictably Murphy's had three reindeer engaging in a ménage-a-trois) but a few had gone to the effort of putting something together themselves. Raven's even featured working lights. Lexa held the camera so Clarke could show off her over-the-top monstrosity, with a sloth wearing sequined glasses dangling from a Christmas tree, and then she took the phone to show Lexa's... which she'd been too caught up in her own creative endeavors to pay much attention to. She pressed her lips together as she took in the little Charlie Brown Christmas tree, bent under the weight of a single ornament, and under it was a package wrapped in brown paper with a tag for Any Soldier, and spilling from it was some candy canes and a pair of socks.

It was ugly, but not in the way Christmas sweaters usually were, and maybe not in a way anyone else would understand... but from the way the other end of the line went quiet, she thought some of them knew this wasn't the kind of sweater you laughed at. 

"Let's vote," Raven said. "Everyone grab a piece of paper and write down your favorite, and whoever gets the most votes wins." 

Lexa found two pieces of paper and they each wrote down their vote – Clarke voted for Raven, like she'd been told, because she didn't need any drama – and they held them up so Raven could see. It didn't take long for her to announce herself the winner, and for Octavia to demand a recount... which confirmed that Raven had, in fact, won. Apparently you just couldn't beat a space ship blasting off to celebrate Christmas on Mars, complete with a rover singing Christmas carols. Clarke came in somewhere in the middle, and Lexa got one vote. As Raven panned around the room, she saw Octavia's fiancé Lincoln give a little salute, and Lexa gave a tiny nod in response. 

"I'll let you go," Clarke said, forcing a smile. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" 

"Don't worry, we will!" Octavia replied cheerfully. "Merry Christmas!" 

"Merry Christmas," Clarke said, and hung up, sagging back against Lexa, who was still standing next to and half-behind her, without thinking. She started to pull away, realizing her mistake, but Lexa's arms were around her, pulling her in, and Clarke turned and buried her face in her shoulder and gave in to everything she was feeling – good, bad, ugly, and everything in between. 

"That was hard," Lexa said softly, when the tears and tremors began to subside. Clarke nodded. "You miss them." It wasn't a question, but Clarke nodded again. "I would say it gets easier, but..." Lexa sighed and pulled the dog tags out of her sweater, and it was probably just residual blurriness from the tears that hadn't quite cleared yet, but Clarke would swear the little Christmas tree bent farther under the weight. 

"The hardest part," Clarke said, "is how easy it is for them to go on without me. If Raven hadn't called... none of them would have missed me. None of them would have cared."

Lexa didn't try to console her with platitudes. She didn't say, 'Of course they would have,' or, 'You don't know that,' or anything of the sort. She just tightened her arms around Clarke, rubbing her back slowly until she relaxed and her eyes dried. 

And Clarke didn't say she was sorry. With anyone else, she would have felt the need to apologize for breaking down, for burdening them, for having feelings. For being human and fallible and fragile and imperfect and... But Lexa didn't want that. She didn't demand it. She accepted that Clarke was all of those things. She accepted Clarke, full stop, just as she was.

Clarke didn't think anyone had done that since her dad died.

"Thank you," she said instead. 

Lexa just dipped her chin in acknowledgement, and gently guided Clarke to the kitchen so they could get started on dinner.

* * *

Lexa added logs to the fire and poked them into place, making sure it would stay burning through the night. She should probably put more fuel in the generator, just in case, but decided it could wait until morning. There was another storm coming – there was always another storm coming – but for now the winds were calm and the sky clear, and she was warm and safe and she hadn't felt a single twinge of pain all day... even now when she thought about it, which was sometimes enough to trigger the feeling of a white-hot blade sliding through her gut. 

She look a final look at the lights that lined the living room and hall, and the candles scattered around the room that they'd lit even though they didn't need them, their flickering glow a familiar comfort they could wrap themselves in before they were forced to face the harsh reality that waited in the cold light of day. She smiled to herself as she eased the plug from the wall and the fairy lights went out and blew out the candles one by one. 

She turned down the blankets on Clarke's side of the bed first – and hissed in a breath at the thorn of guilt that dug into her heart and lodged itself there. How could she think of it that way, even if it was the side Clarke would be climbing into any moment? It was only temporary. Tomorrow Clarke would go home. Lexa wouldn't have any reason to ask her to stay, and she didn't want to, damn it. 

_You've never been a good liar,_ Anya told her. _We always saw right through you. Especially Costia._

"I can't do this," Lexa muttered. "Just—" _leave me alone,_ she almost said, but stopped herself because she didn't want Anya to leave her alone. Not really. Because if she did... if they both did... she would have nothing left. Nothing and no one and—

Clarke came into the room smelling like lotion and toothpaste, sliding under the covers quickly before the chill of the air could seep through her pajamas. "Merry Christmas, Lexa," she said, settling in like she belonged here, like this wasn't awkward in the slightest for her, and why would it be? Even if Lexa had thought for moment when they were dancing that she might—they might—

"Merry Christmas, Clarke," she said, switching off the light and rolling so her back was turned and she wasn't tempted to lay staring at her all night while her thoughts spiraled out of control. 

But she didn't – couldn't – sleep, and finally she rolled back over, finding Clarke's hand beneath the blankets and covering it with her own. "I'm glad too," she whispered. "That's what I was going to say when Raven said she was glad I hadn't let you freeze. I'm glad too."


	10. Chapter 10

When they woke up in the morning, the first flakes had already started to fall. It wasn't heavy enough to even cover the road yet, but Clarke's stomach was in knots as she imagined what it might look like in an hour or two. She eyed the sky, and then the power lines that waved in the gusty breeze, and hoped whatever repairs had been done were sturdy enough to get them through the storm without losing power again. 

Lexa came up beside her, close enough Clarke could feel the warmth radiating from her body, and maybe she was imagining it but she thought Lexa was standing a little taller than she had a few days ago, her shoulders back rather than curled in, a mug of tea cradled in her palms. Clarke's coffee was still percolating in the tiny pot Lexa had dug out of the back of a cabinet. "Going to be a long one," she said. "Couple of days."

"Again?" Clarke groaned. Lexa just shrugged. "You can tell that just by looking?"

"Yup," Lexa said. Clarke looked at her and saw the corner of her mouth twitch. "One look at the Weather Channel app and—"

Clarke jabbed an elbow into her side, forgetting the tea until it sloshed over and Lexa let out a hiss. "Oh no," Clarke said. "Lexa, I'm sorry! I'm so, so—"

"It didn't get me," Lexa said quickly. "It's okay."

"Let me—" Clarke stopped herself before touching Lexa again. 

Lexa set the mug on the coffee table and offered Clarke her hands, and sure enough, the splash of hot liquid had miraculously missed Lexa's skin. Clarke's touch lingered longer than it should have, but Lexa didn't pull away. She just watched Clarke's face, until Clarke felt heat rise in her cheeks. "I was—" Lexa started to say, at the same time Clarke said, "I wasn't—" and they both stopped. 

"You go," Clarke said. 

"No, you," Lexa replied.

Rather than fighting about it, staring at each other in a stubborn standoff, Clarke sighed. "I wasn't thinking," she said. "You know I would never hurt you." She swallowed, her eyes flicking to Lexa's. _You **do** know that, don't you? I hope you know that..._

"I was," Lexa said softly. "Thinking, I mean. Not that you would hurt me. Which you didn't. And the floors have seen a lot worse, I would imagine." Her words came in short bursts, punctuated by quick breaths. "I was thinking..." She swallowed, and Clarke watched her throat bob. "I was thinking you could stay. Through the storm. Just in case." She looked at Clarke, then quickly away. "Only if you wanted," she said. "I understand if you don't. Want to. Just know—"

"I should go to the store," Clarke said. "I noticed we're – you're low on milk, and a few other things. I should go to the store before the storm really gets going." 

Lexa looked up at her, and this time she didn't look away. This time her gaze was so intense, boring into Clarke like she was trying to see straight into her head to read her thoughts, because she didn't know if she could trust Clarke's words. After a moment, her expression relaxed, the worry lines that creased her face not etched nearly as deep as they had been a few days ago. "I'll put more fuel in the generator," she said, "and bring in more wood."

* * *

"Clarke!" 

Clarke's head snapped up at the sound of her name, tearing her away from the contemplation of whether or not to buy hot cocoa mix, and if so, which kind. She hadn't paid attention to what Lexa had, or how much, but it was something she enjoyed and—

"Imagine running into you here!" Mrs. Barber said, approaching as fast as her stocky legs could carry her. She was beaming like Clarke was a long-lost friend she hadn't seen in ages, rather than a colleague she'd just seen a few days ago, and acting as if it really was a surprise to encounter her at the only grocery store in town, which was already starting to fill up with shoppers bracing themselves for the next storm. 

"Hi, Mrs. Barber," Clarke said. She wasn't one of the ones who had offered to have Clarke over for the holidays, and somehow that made it less awkward. "Merry Belated Christmas." 

Mrs. Barber laughed. "Merry Christmas," she said. "Did you have a good holiday?"

"I did," Clarke said, smiling back at her. She opened her mouth to say more, then shut it. She didn't need to go into details. "What about you?" 

"Oh, you know," Mrs. Barber said, her smile slipping just a little. "It had its ups and downs..."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Clarke said, and inwardly winced at the reflexive apology. Not that it was inappropriate – she was expressing sympathy, not remorse – but she still hated that it was her go-to response for anything even remotely uncomfortable. 

"Mm-hmm," Mrs. Barber said. "It turned out to be a little more eventful than any of us was hoping. Speaking of which..."

* * *

_Stop,_ Costia said. _She's coming back._

Lexa looked down at her fingers tangled in the chain around her neck, the tips turning purple, and carefully unwound them. She wanted to believe Costia, but it was taking too long. The store wasn't that far away, and the roads weren't bad yet, and the list Clarke had made only had a few items on it. There was no reason for it to take this long. 

_Maybe the store was crowded,_ Costia suggested. _People restocking after the holidays, before the storm. Maybe the line was long. Maybe she ran into a friend and lost track of time talking. People do that, you know. Have friends. Talk to people. It's a thing._ Her tone was teasing, but the words still stung. 

"All of my friends are dead," Lexa said, out loud because there was no reason not to, no one around to overhear. And it struck her that she'd never said it out loud before. Or if she had, it had been a bomb thrown in the face of whatever doctor or therapist was trying to tell her that she was being dramatic, things weren't so bad, really. She sucked in a breath as a dagger of pain worked its way between her ribs, pricking the tender, torn flesh of a heart that had lost its icy defenses. "All of my friends are dead."

_Not all,_ Costia said. _Luna's still out there somewhere. And Clarke—_

"Left," Lexa said. "Like everyone else. Like _you_. She left, and she's not coming back and—"

Costia sighed, and Lexa thought for a second she felt the gust of her breath against her skin, sending a shiver racing down her spine. _I never meant to,_ Costia said. _You know that._

"I know, but—"

_And Clarke is coming back. There are plenty of reasons for it to take longer than you think it should, but she **will** come back. Just breathe through it. In and out. In... and... out..._

Lexa did as she was told, gasping in a breath and letting it out in a shuddering sigh, and then another, and gradually they slowed down and evened out... and then a key rattled in the lock and the door burst open, and Lexa was on her feet, her heart slamming against her ribs. She crept toward the hall, her shoulder pressed to the wall as she poked her head around the corner.

"It's me," Clarke said, setting down an armload of bags. "It's only me." 

_See?_ , Costia said. _I told you she'd come back._

Lexa nodded, but her heart didn't slow down. If anything, it sped up, because Clarke had come back, and it didn't mean anything, but...

She swallowed and licked dry lips. "You went for milk."

"And a few other things!" Clarke said, looking down at the bags. "I guess I got a little carried away." She shrugged, flashing a wry smile. "Can you start putting those away? I need to get one more thing from the car." She didn't wait for an answer, just turned around and walked out again, a blast of cold air entering in her wake. 

Lexa shivered and picked up the bags, carrying them into the kitchen and searching for the cold stuff first. Had Clarke even remembered the milk?

_Wouldn't it be ironic, don't you think?_ , Anya teased. 

Lexa finally found it in the third bag and put it in its place in the fridge, then tucked a few pints of ice cream into the freezer, pressing her lips together in a crooked hint of a smile. Ice cream for a blizzard. Clarke was becoming more of a northerner by the day. She heard the door open and close again, and then shuffling and rustling and thumping in the front hall as Clarke took off her boots and coat, which seemed to be taking a lot longer than normal, but Lexa was too busy trying to find places for things she would never have even thought of buying herself to pay much attention.

* * *

Clarke pressed a finger to her lips and padded to the kitchen doorway, enjoying the view of Lexa bending down to retrieve something from one of the bags before she remembered why she was hovering nervously in the doorway. She cleared her throat. "So, uh... promise you won't kill me?" 

Lexa's head snapped up, and Clarke froze like a deer in the headlights. "Why would I kill you?" Lexa asked, wariness creeping into her voice, but not full-on paranoia. Not yet. 

"I ran into one of my coworkers at the store," Clarke said. "And I, uh... picked something else up on my way home." 

Lexa's eyes narrowed, her eyes flicking down to Clarke's feet like she expected to find more bags, and then to either side of her like Clarke might be hiding something behind her back. "What?" she asked.

"Um." Clarke retreated few steps, crouched down, and reached into the crate she'd set just out of sight to pull out a sleepy, blanket-wrapped bundle of fluff. She cradled it against her chest as Lexa straightened, and even though she was only a few inches taller than Clarke, in that moment she seemed to tower. Clarke braced herself for shouting, fingers pointed at the door telling her to get out and never come back. Because bringing Christmas into the house was one thing, but a puppy? A living, breathing, squirming thing that needed time and attention? 

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. When Mrs. Barber had offered, Clarke's thought – her very first thought – was that something to take care of was exactly what Lexa needed. Look how far she'd come in just a few days with Clarke to look after. If there was a small, helpless little creature depending on her to keep it healthy and happy, Lexa couldn't retreat into those dark places. She couldn't spend all day in bed, trapped by pain and all of her ghosts, if the puppy needed to be let out, and fed, and brushed and cuddled and played with and—

And what if Clarke was wrong? What if the best of intentions backfired? Was she ready to take on the responsibility of a pet herself? Would Lexa at least be willing to help, taking the dog for a walk in the middle of the day when Clarke went back to work? Because she didn't think a puppy's bladder would be able to wait eight hours, sometimes more. Or would Lexa shake her head and tell her she'd brought this madness on herself, and she would have to deal with the consequences. Alone. 

Lexa approached slowly, like Clarke had brought in a wild animal and not a drowsy Golden Retriever only just old enough to leave its mother. Her hands twitched at her sides, but slowly she reached out and ran a single fingertip along the top of its head. It yawned, making a little squeaking noise, and closed its mouth with the tip of its tongue still hanging out. "Oh," Lexa said softly, and held out her arms.

Clarke deposited the puppy into them, blanket and all, and watched the last tiny shards of ice around Lexa's heart melt away as she pressed her face into the puppy's soft fur. All of the tension seemed to flood out of her, and her eyes were as wet as the pup's tiny nose when she looked up at Clarke again. "You went to get _milk._ " 

"I know," Clarke said. "But like I said, I ran into a coworker, and she mentioned that her son had gotten his kids a puppy for Christmas, but it turns out one of them is like, deathly allergic. So she took the puppy home with her, but she's older and doesn't have the time or energy to take care of something so young right now, especially in the dead of winter, and she asked if I knew of anyone who might be looking for a dog and I thought..." Clarke swallowed. "Merry Christmas?"

Lexa pressed her lips together. "Milk, Clarke."

"You could call her Milk," Clarke suggested, fighting back a smile as her own body unclenched. For all she liked to think of herself as someone who thought things through, who made plans and executed them, the truth was she could be impulsive, acting on instinct and following her heart and her gut more than her head sometimes. Maybe most of the time. This time, at least, it seemed to have worked out. 

Lexa's eyes narrowed, her expression flat and reproachful. 

Clarke laughed. "Milky Way?" she suggested. "Andromeda? Snickers?"

Lexa looked down at the puppy, who looked back at her with wide, adoring eyes and flicked its tongue out to lick her chin. "Hope."

"Hope?"

"Her name is Hope," Lexa said. 

"Why Hope?" Clarke asked. 

"Because..." Lexa's jaw worked, and her eyes flicked to Clarke, then down again. "'Hope come.' 'Hope stay.'"

Clarke had to swallow several times before she could manage to squeeze anything past the lump in her throat. She closed the distance between them, reaching out to clasp Lexa's elbows because her hands were full. "We're not going anywhere."

* * *

Lexa met Clarke's eyes again, and she couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to. Because Costia might have had to bludgeon Lexa with the truth about her own feelings, but she'd learned a thing or two over the years. And this time she knew she wasn't imagining the look in Clarke's eyes: the fragile hope and the uncertain desire. This time, she was sure the moment that was happening wasn't only in her head. She wasn't the only one whose breath was catching and whose heart was tripping and skipping a beat. 

_Is this a kissing story?_ , Anya asked. 

_I think it might be,_ Costia answered, her voice soft, maybe a little wistful, like she'd seen this coming a mile away and was happy for Lexa and sad for herself and—

_Ugh,_ Anya said. _I hate kissing stories._

_It's not—_ Lexa started, but she couldn't say it. _I don't—_ But she did. Clarke was close, so close, and Lexa wanted her closer. She wanted the moment to never end. She wanted a million more like it, today and tomorrow, and...

"Lexa?"

_It's okay,_ Costia told her. _My love, it's okay. I'll always be with you._

Lexa swallowed a sob, her eyes pricking with tears. She couldn't do this. She wasn't ready. 

_You can. You are._

Clarke's fingers tightened on her arms, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer, but it was enough. Enough to draw Lexa back into reality. Enough to tip her over the threshold between past and future, death and life, giving up and giving in...

Lexa blinked, and blinked again, Clarke's face coming into her focus, her eyes full of concern now, and something more. Something Lexa hadn't seen in so long it had taken her days to recognize it. Something she'd thought she would never see in someone's eyes when they looked at her ever again. Something she thought she would never want to see, or deserve to see, or...

"Clarke," she whispered, and shifted the puppy in her arms to free one hand, caressing Clarke's jaw with the ball of her thumb as her fingers slid through her hair, lightly cupping the back of her neck as she leaned in.

_I think our work here is done,_ Anya said, smug as ever. 

_Goodbye, love,_ Costia whispered. 

_Wait! I—_

_Sha-la-la-la-la..._ Anya sang, one final time, and they were gone.

Lexa sucked in a breath, her chin quivering and her lower lip trembling (and most of the rest of her, if she was being honest), and pressed her lips to Clarke's again, and again, until she couldn't ignore the squirming bundle in her arms any longer and she had to pull away.

"Maybe you should name her Patience," Clarke said as Lexa leaned down to set the puppy on the floor, allowing her to explore her new home. "Hope—" But she stopped, shook her head. "Hope is the perfect name." 

"If she needs to go out in the middle of the night, you're taking her," Lexa said. 

Clarke looked at her, wide-eyed, because there was a lot more to those words than an ultimatum, and they both knew it. "Deal," she said, and sealed it with a kiss.

* * *

They watched the puppy frisk around the room, bounding from one object to another, occasionally letting out little yips when something startled her, like logs shifting in the wood stove (they would probably have to build some kind of barrier to keep her away, although maybe puppies were smarter than small children and instinctively knew that fire was bad) or a gust of wind rattling the windows. Each time she rushed to Lexa's feet, and Lexa crouched down to reassure her that it was okay, she knew the world was big and scary and unpredictable but she wasn't going to let anything happen to her. She was safe.

They were all safe. 

They played with the puppy and took her out when she started circling like she was contemplating the best place to do her business. Clarke held the leash and encouraged her to get busy while Lexa shoveled the walk and a little patch of grass that would be Hope's potty area because the snow from the last storm was already higher than the tiny pup's head, and there was more on the way. Hope didn't seem to mind, frisking and frolicking and snapping at the flakes, letting out a volley of sneezes when she managed to huff a few straight into her nose. 

When she'd finally peed, they tromped back inside, stripping off their layers and drying Hope's paws and fur... only to repeat the whole process again a few hours later. 

The day passed slowly, and Clarke was happy to allow the minutes to crawl by with Lexa never far from her side. They made and ate lunch and dinner, and talked a little and kissed a lot, but the need to keep an eye on Hope kept it from escalating beyond soft, slow, sweet exploration above the collar. 

Darkness came early, and with it the full force of the storm. They were barely able to coax Hope out into the howling wind and swirling snow for one final potty break before giving her a cuddle and tucking her into her crate for the night, with a hot water bottle and a ticking alarm clock (Clarke didn't ask why Lexa had such a thing; it was old enough it felt like it might have come with the house or something) because Lexa had read online that it helped puppies transition to being away from the warmth and heartbeat of their mother and brothers and sisters. 

"Good night, Hope," Lexa whispered, kissing the pup's nose – and getting her own nose kissed in return – before shutting the crate door. She turned to the wood stove to get it set up for the night... only to discover Clarke had already done it. "Oh," she said. "Thank you. I—"

"Taught me well," Clarke said. 

A smile flickered at the corners of Lexa's mouth, and she held out her hand. "Coming?"

Lexa's cheeks were flushed, and Clarke could feel an answering heat rising in her own face. Going to bed together had suddenly taken on a whole new significance, and stepping through that bedroom door was stepping into a whole new realm of possibility. Not that anything was going to happen, necessarily... but it might. Clarke's stomach fluttered as she took Lexa's hand and followed.

While Clarke had been cleaning up after their bedtime snack, Lexa had disappeared into her room for a bit. Clarke hadn't questioned it, but now she saw that Lexa had done and sucked in a breath. One of the strings of fairy lights twinkled over the bed, and there were candles scattered around the room, adding their warmth and glow. "Oh Lexa..." she breathed, letting go of her hand, but only so she could wrap her arms around her waist, pulling their bodies flush against each other. 

"Clarke," Lexa whispered, her breath brushing Clarke's lips a second before their mouths met. Clarke's lips parted under the pressure, the tip of her tongue flicking out to trace and taste, and this time there was no holding back. 

She worked open the buttons of Lexa's flannel from the bottom up and she could feel Lexa's heartbeat thrumming all through her. Her fingers brushed the warm skin beneath, and she traced over it until she hit a patch that wasn't so smooth.

* * *

Lexa froze. 

She'd forgotten. Somehow, she'd forgotten, but when Clarke's fingers brushed over her scar – one of her scars, the worst of them – it came crashing back, and she couldn't move, could barely breathe, as the dream shattered and reality came crashing back.

She expected Clarke to pull away. She expected rejection, revulsion. She expected—

"Did I hurt you?"

Not that.

Had she? Did it hurt? Or was it all in Lexa's head?

_Just because it's in your head..._

But it was time to figure it out. If it was all in her head, she had at least some control, some power over it, didn't she? If it was her brain telling her body there was pain and not the other way around, then she could tell her brain it was wrong, couldn't she? Mind over matter, right? 

So she concentrated, focused on the sensation, the reality of it and not her expectation. 

"No," she said, when she managed to suck oxygen back into her lungs. "It doesn't hurt." 

"Can I... see?" Clarke asked. 

Lexa swallowed. She couldn't. She wasn't ready.

_Yes you are,_ someone said. 

No. Not someone. It was her own voice, her subconscious reassuring her that she could do this. If she wanted to. If she let herself. She was her own worst enemy and maybe always had been. So much had been taken from her in the past, but only she could rob herself of a future. _This_ future, if she wanted it. 

"Okay," she whispered, and stood still – or as still as she could with her entire body shaking – as Clarke finished unbuttoning her shirt and brushed it gently aside. Lexa's breath came in quick gasps as Clarke looked, finally seeing the places where Lexa's body had been torn and mended, first with her eyes and then with her hands and then Lexa's world shifted on its axis as Clarke dropped to her knees and pressed a kiss to the seamed flesh. 

"You are," Clarke breathed against her skin, looking up at her with eyes so bright blue even in the flickering dim, "so beautiful."

Lexa's breath caught, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, and she pulled Clarke up and pressed her down, each kiss a silent thank you. She fumbled with the buttons of Clarke's flannel... which was actually her flannel, she realized, and didn't care...

Clarke hissed, and Lexa looked down at her to see what was wrong. 

_Oh._ The tags dangling around her neck, freed when Clarke undid Lexa's last buttons, had hit Clarke's skin, a shock of cold metal against fevered flesh. Lexa wrapped her fingers around them, squeezing until the edges dug into her palm... and then slowly, carefully, lifted the chain from around her neck. 

"Just a second," she whispered, slipping off of Clarke and out of bed. She slid the box of memories from where she'd tucked it back beneath the bed and lifted the lid. She coiled the chain around her fingers one final time, then pulled out the case that held her purple heart and flipped it open, tucking the tags inside. She was about to close it when Clarke's hand closed around hers. 

"I have an idea," she said. "May I?"

Lexa hesitated, then handed her the box and its precious contents. She watched as Clarke stood and went to the door, disappearing through it... and then reappearing, waiting for Lexa to force herself into motion to follow. They went back into the living room – Hope was asleep in her crate, dreaming her puppy dreams – and over to the mantel above the fireplace that had been blocked off long ago in favor of the wood stove. 

Clarke set the medal case in the center, the lid open to display its contents, and looped the chain gently, reverently, around it, so the tags hung like medals too. 

"Tomorrow we can pick out pictures," Clarke said. "I have some frames. I know you'll never forget them, but... maybe we can honor them with the memorial they deserve." 

Lexa's eyes flooded with tears as she nodded, wetting both their faces as she pulled Clarke in for a kiss. Because the best memorial Lexa could give them, including – maybe especially – Costia, was to live, and love, again.

And that was exactly what she planned to do.


End file.
